The King’s Speech

Loud voice, fragmenting, along with my teeth;
Speech patterns broken, immutably creased:
Pouring decay, filling thought-cavities:
Spoken in youth, foul mendacities
Arise again, on bile’s ribbed chest-stab:
My speech, less dictation, now keyboard-gab.

The therapist pointed, a turned, beige chair,
His notes, table-placed, small hands held in prayer:
‘Deliver me patients, whom’ll speak much more’,
Or something like that, his held-silent lore:
Sheets ticked, penned, his half-deciphered scrawl:
‘Speech could be lost,’ under PD’s draped pall.

‘The heartburn, easy, just change everything’:
But my speech will ne’er be that of a King.
I left with a list, of life to elude,
Diluting a risk of slow-death, through food:
Air-way, gullet, they won’t work so well:
My banqueting less, and thus choke-risk quelled.

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