An Immovable Beast

Wine spills across these parchment lips,
Comes in the inky entrée: marinated clichés
and puerile claret, the joint hands out forceps:
they've got sterile opinions for takeaways.

Sip some claret, and hear the jejune folk
jabber, bereft of metaphor and flourish,
I hastily gobble, ruminate and choke
upon the bland remains of a frozen dish.

The buds remain dead, the tongues flick in line
and polite conversation and fake outrage,
routinely intermingle to spew out anodyne,
But for any wisdom, they refer to a tainted sage.

From the corner of their mouths spills out bile
An assured faith in retching among these convives,
Self professed gluttons, they sip on faith and guile
And harass the Tongue with tridents and knives.

Swallow their pride, for they too are well-fed,
sitting across a 56-inch table, they chew the cud,
"No spice mister, the mouth gets offended!"
Not a flicker of dissent to enliven the taste bud.

I mutter below my frozen breath, "Words don't hurt.
That's not offence Sire, just a censor in drag",
But remember, and slip back to my vapid dessert,
That tongues at this table can only loll, never wag.