I must have nothing to say.
My words are as meat for the grinder,
Chewed up and spat on the ground
In lifeless heaps for dogs to sniff.
One cur might take a tentative nip
At the mound, then retreat
To his master's ankles.
But most ignore the meat,
Too lean for picky palates.
I would that one would snatch the pile,
Swallow it whole
And choke on nothingness.
