In the nest of
A wading stork
Where newborn storklets
Their cry uncork
Might an inclined ear
Encounter talk
Dissimilarly hued
And yet of uniform walk
Occasionally rude
And occasionally queer
Emmanating from
The pickled sphere
The restless whispers
From a displaced here
Served with noodles
And boarlets stewed
Paprika, pencil
Pomegranite, pork
Such words as might
Make ear succumb
And there you’ll
Suck the briney crumb
Or eggshells picked
From the cobra plum
In the nest of
A wading stork
With a silver fishknife
With a Jewelled fork
With haste at leisure
A dismissal chewed
Or the silent commentary
Roundly booed
And off you get
Sore blunted by
The rigours of
Uborkitude.
-Richard Groats (1949-2001)