Masticator

Has to everyone
once simple synthesis
come unpure,
udone?

Singing oversung?

Its kernel containing
some irksome taint?

A gnostic mosh-pit
in the gray matter's mound,
a senseless addiction
to the confounding
and potent arrangement
of syllabic sounds?

On such stuff chewing
Charlie crippled the civil citizens
of his mumbly mouth
(long predisposed to rot)
and having quick forgotten
where his unshy smile fell out
he flashes an unwinning,
oddly closed-mouth grin
to the decrepit pilings
of the perished pier
near the abandoned beach he trods.

Slyly eyeing the moon
above the churlish surf
achieves our Charles
a much relieving
unsudden access,
an untapped resevoir of mirth,
decides right then and there
to an ode compose-

to the summ'ry 'membrance
of an ex's round, tanned calf,

declares he'd give
all his meagre gold
(or half)
to do it passing well.

Thinking thus
claims he achieved
the breaking day
and ope-throated,
all pagan pious,
a good ol' ruckus raises-

an ancient practice-

madness kept,
with healthy howls,
at bay.