Let us not decry
the decline of the language,
dude.

Let the grammarians
and librarians
and Shakespearians

shake the tiny spears
of their red pens at us.

Let the letter writers
mourn the death of letter writing.

Let the virtuoso
conversationalists grumble
about their dwindling
number.

Let them all
chill. We still
got a handle
on the verbal,
baby.

And the language ain’t
dying. It’s cooking
with oil.

So I say, let us praise
on our geographic
tongues

this living gumbo,
this fine and thick
delicious and nutritious
mud

whence all the beautiful
and endangered species
spring, sprang,

sprung.