David Hume

I take an aith,

excuse me,

oath

to trot back home

and enlighten

ilke,

excuse me,

every

thistle-born Tory.

 

I say, it is by having a proper countenance,

speech, grammar,

knowledge, written in

Black Letter history,

that our blethering brothers

can hope to excise

that malignant tumor of

home.

 

I did.

 

London!

Do you not see what

I

have taught

you?

Written word has no accent, and

Hume is not Home. A Hobbist?

Well, maybe, perhaps,

the self is

always changing,

I can change the format once more. Yes sirs,

an essay, yes.

 

That will work, that will be legible.

Filed under Poems, on