The Decay of a Poet

These my words and yet I stutter

So makes my mouth my mimicry

This my mind yet unfamiliar

And such this stutter shelters me

Such the art of eager eaters

Whose tables oft do speak of greed

Such my mouth unduly dither

Partake of fruits which ruin me

Verse of prose now better bitter

My mouth do shape and make decrees

Lest such words forsake my maker

And forsaken my soul do seethe

Such now I ask: poison, venom?

What ailments now have taken me?

For my mouth is ever biting

And mindless now do I speak.