There are some out there who spew not speak,
Those whose throats writhe skittishly with a million little creatures,
Not words,
Just torrents of insects,
A plague of locusts in vowels and tones,
Ravaging the target of their utterances,
From a maw liveried in spiders web,
Come wasps and hornets with malicious style,
Accusations and threats on wings,
Ants and termites boring into your ears,
You feebly bat at them with refuting arguments,
Only to be buffeted anew at greater buzzing sonority,
These peoplr do not intend to debate,
Only to feed upon your angst,
Like a rural field stripped bare,
They do not wish to share wisdom,
But to feast upon you with verbal mandibles,
To feed the vermin host of their tongues.