My mouth is a washing machine that is leaking again.
The inner cogs and machinations are all turning,
But out of sync and at their own free will and
Froth and scum is pouring out
And it goes on and on and on, I can't stop
The churning, the creation
Of the inconvenient waterfall, the cascades
Of humiliation, the torrents of my speech.
"The old girl has finally snapped,"
They mutter, a hand on my shaking shoulder,
And then I'm taken away
To sit in a quiet corner.
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