I longed to peck at umlaut-seeds way back
in youth, or slurp the upturned question mark,
but orders from some shrugging oligarch
meant crumbs of croissant were the only snack,
served up in straight long lines and with a lack
of regard for time. So, parrot in a dark
and empty cage, I learned to blindly bark.
Past and future lay in the same sack.
When chained to my own motley native tongue
they likewise never held a mirror to it.
I’ve ate their starchy knowledge, just to poo it
back out like a seagull squirting dung.
Perhaps we’re not to know what language is,
we’re just to work and pay our mortgages.
