--- D A V I D   F L O Y D

		is tired of all the naysayers,
	theorists, and rapscallions who claim
words have no meaning.
He knows he is the literal
	embodiment of locution,
		the watchdog of shibboleths,
		conundrums, agency, and curses.
	His syllables resist scansion.
There are certain poets he'd like to see 
eat their own words--
	he'd heat up a bowl
		of alphabet soup for them,
		serve it with an obscene measure
	of cayenne pepper, let them lick
their residual chops.
Even when clichés creep up on him--
	"a man of words and not of deeds
		is like a garden full of weeds"-- 
		he stays put in the cage he's been put in,
	fingers bits of straw, leans
more toward capaciousness.
The letters in his head
	run to other letters, turn
		into words, definitions
		he'll keep to himself
	when the runes 
of his bones get soft:		
aurora borealis 
	willow warblers
		solace