(taking notes at a public meeting addressed by Mai Selph)

He slurs his words but whose words would you have him
slur, not those of yours nor Jesus Christ’s?
His verbal bons mots do not if you halve them
sum up to something better than what’s spliced
between the sheets, main braces and stale phlegm
that cross and short connections in his mind.

I’d be preciser but I’m being kind.
I’d be grammatical but he is blind
to what I’m writing here: he does not read
and more precision would not add one jot
to this jammy, namby-pamby polyglot
who stands before us speaking. He’s enthralled
by what he thinks he’s saying. Wan eyes glisten
as he assumes because we face him that we listen.