As we have been learning in this finger-pointing age, the act of speaking can be just as awkwardly difficult as writing. Social gaffes, and (lately) life-destroying comments can spill out of a person’s mouth before he or she can realize what has inadvertently and irreparably happened.
Lately I’ve been nostalgic for an earlier age when a mangled phrase caused a mere blush. Such a blip often made for unintentional humor; everybody enjoyed a brief chuckle and moved on. William Archibald Spooner, Thou should be living at this hour!
So that’s ^ the prelude to this next ditty, having first appeared on the NitLet in 2013, inspired by the Financial Meltdown of Ought Eight.
Minancial Feltdown
(or) My Spell-Check is Going Nuts
Straw Wheat brock stokers got a fin wall.
Banks said they weren’t too fig to fail.
The gift came with no stings attacked.
Cat fats gorged from the porky pail.
A one-sided pimulous stackage
Highed-up pile never let them down.
No such goodies went to Strain Meet.
Nothing dripped for Drickle Town.
Don Joe’s pension flushed down the tubes.
Hortgage molders sensed a bad vibe.
Time to press the cheeky glass
and curse the way it kissed the bribe.