The Red Delicious apple of your tongue
engages words to a misperception
never pondered: a dull bite for the dutiful
drone who floats, prosaic, like a fly

in the soapbox bath of trite deflection.
(How these adjectives pile into a poignant
heap of silage!)  Deaf and dumb, we feel
your timid roar, the pontificate shrill

of bought sensation. We, the unwashed,
the workers, struggle. Efficacy you are not.
Efficacy has become a vagabond, offstage,
lynched and artless like a doped-up doll, swinging,

swinging, swung from the muting rope.
(O, how the sweetened crowd denies
this lynching!)  But your mouth-hole smells
of backside hiss and rank conceit, nightly

flung from the cobalt screen, a bland
emission.  Or effluvium, which is your name --
how you shill the golden fleece, this whip
of commerce, into godheads; how you fix

these meanings into flavorless bytes
of nothing subtle, nothing given
but the crisp disinclination
of a mealymouthed imposture.  How absurd!