the means by which we sic the hunting dogs
or spew our bile on friend and foe close by,
will call the porcine screech of slopping hogs,
voices hymnal praises sundays when we try.
so salt and sweet flood from a single spring
man's hateful strife, or love songs in supply,
depending on the faucet that we wring,
produce our smile or else the evil eye.
first, sticks and stone projectiles dealing pain,
with biting barbs intended to demean;
remorse on cue will sing cliche's refrain,
the oh so sorrys, another emptied spleen...
words opt for compliance, reduce to size,
strangle defiance, try flushing out lies,
or in adoration, praise some to the skies,
till self-control science on language relies.
Poems From the Goober Tree