The King’s Speech

My old voice – fragmenting – along with my teeth –
speech patterns are broken – immutably creased –
pouring decay out my thought-cavities –

spoken in youth – such mendacities
They arise again on bile’s chest-stab –
My speechless dictation a keyboard-gab

The therapist pointed – a turned beige chair –
his notes – table-placed – his hands held in prayer –
Deliver me patients, who’ll speak much more –

Or something like that – his held-silent lore –
Sheets ticked – penned by his half-deciphered scrawl –
The 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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