She used it totally out of place
but natural as calling an infant ‘Babes!’
The poet’s moithered by all that pollution
like herself annoyed at my constant questions.
The word was her, chewing-gum twirler
giving so much lip and jip,
a desk-scribbler stirrer
using her tongue as a whip.
It was perfect for flustered:
I could imagine the artist
as all the complex phrases whirred
and churned, his hair in a twist.
No examiner could possibly weigh it,
no educationalist glue and frame it:
it leapt out like her laughter
and my red mark was the real error.
by Mike Jenkins
from Red Landscapes
Rambling At The Bridge Head 