This has been brewing for quite some time,
Your babbling, bubbling cauldron of gruel.
Much like the witches who garnered no good,
Looking for trouble, pitiful fool.
Chattering, smatterings speak to the air,
Baseline pretensions run wild,
Stabbing the life out of palpable logic,
A mentally midgeted child.
No one in earshot evades your tirade.
It carries as though it has wings.
It smells of the heat of a thousand fires,
Reverberating in rings.
No one wants to simmer inside your
Pot of trouble and toil.
Time to turn off the flame and
Put a lid in place to temper the boil.
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