Mr Incisor, make the mouth proud.

Neither your censure nor your parade can be sketched.

You harass the air

and the common ground is constipated.

Open up wide and let’s inspect the silver,

would you mind if I just dipped in my pen

and twirl around the salad, a little dizzy?

Maybe I could underline a few ammunitions,

and make a poem out of you,

hold it up to my head and

bang.