Once a species of linguishing wordlums
lay wait from their lair in the woodlands
to terrorize tourists
who travel with purists
protecting the language from hoodlums.
They would squirrel their quivers with missives
of contraband bits of what-is-its,
then hissingly curve ’em
with assonant fervum
to hurl in a rain of munitions.
In the face of unflinchable phonics
the forest would ring with harmonics.
The purists were silenced
and poets were licensed
forever to frolic with sonics.
2022 Mary Boren