His argument was random prose

an ill placement of alphabet

I could, with inked duster

glitter every misplaced comma

Instead I ridicule

the grey construction

Seek my wit

in the dull glaze he uses

His expired library pass

and yawning eye

Indicate that this victory

will be a paragraph, often cited

My humour heavy tongue

riddled with post speech saliva

Removes from my upper lip

the sweet sugar of success

Shells of my vocabulary

litter the vocal grounds

His towel of defeat

falls like a wounded white grouse