They said my dialect is vernacular. They said my mother tongue is barbaric and uncivilized; so I became sad and in turn threw caution to the wind. This was when... I lost my decency of language use and so, my hatred for the English language grew. Grammar was like having two grandmas, Syntax was like paying tax on every sin, Phonology seemed like tiny ticks on my phone and morphology, Ohw Gawd! It was like sweet muffins soaked in sauce. I was having a public speech; November 6, 1954, busy fanning the flames of my motivees when suddenly, grammar kissed my Jesus and twinkly twinkly, the soldiers of language-felony came rushing in taking me to the cross of shame and nailing my ignorance to the wood of morphemic-defiance. Had I known my crimes would have me to the guillotines of profanity, my head I would have saved for pizzara-n-dish The judge stared into my eyes with sunken sockets deep into the depths of fear. My heart rested on nails and crushers and my beats looped on crouches as he read humptly dumptly of my unforgivable sins. “this man here, I consider a linguistic minor, has proved dangerous to the wellbeing of language. For on the 7th of November, 1954, he said with no reservations, ‘we must all [fights] to make this revolution a success’ and as we all know, Section five of the concordial and tensial constitution Clearly states ‘No man shall prove dialectal-deficiency in matters of public concern’ ’’ Maybe my head could have been saved; and my pound of flesh, reserved, but ohw Gawd! I murdered the last born of phonology. I had started to think that all romances turn out tragic; Shakespeare I must ask, and my stuckedness to civility to my waterloo; myself I must inquire For it was meant to be a wooing of my sweetie pie But who knew it would be my hellrunoff-line? “I _[ombli]_ ask for your hand in marriage”. Pardon my manners; my head must travel down this lane from the blade through the rolling levers for the judge read aloud. “No man, Incompetent in matters of phonetic articulation must murder an ‘[h]’ "_ but how could a man show his manners to a gentle lady than to attempt a variety higher than the roof of his tongue? In the least, My counts were about a hundred. Maybe I could have saved that last piece of my head; a souvenir to my brother But Ohw Nou! I womanly slaughtered paradigms and syntagmas and in the same hour, I shattered collocation. My bad! I severed the right arm of semantic relevance. I was on the walkway: Mono-logging about my immediate difficulties. My minusculeness in a world of linguistic complexities and so I said, “I would one [days] have a lounge in my cup of cupcakes” Little did I know that the diglossic winds of stratification carried my mumbles away. So, here I am, with a thousand linguistic count-charges, being dragged to the blades of my deficiency that my head can be tossed off its roots. But before the melon on my neck splurts, before it rolls down the isle of minors. Before my blood drool through this metal slab; This I must confess, that I have no regrets; for my babarikness in my cold blooded murderings cause language to me is nothing. Nothing but a convention of lemon-flavoured icecream.