Grains and Motes and Soupçons--Oh, My!

A grain of salt is all I ask

A modicum of decorum is all I need

Is a smidgen of propriety too large a task?

A dollop of integrity on which I can feed?

A scintilla of clever will do just fine

A mote of note will light your spark

A soupçon of style like smooth red wine

Around cortical islands where you park your quarks

An iota of biota in my brain will awaken

An anima of conscience, regret, and bravado

A speck of shame is surely mistaken

When a shred of decency's held incommunicado

A fleck of flack so flicked as feedback

Will monosyllablize diction and discourse

Preen away pedantic weeds begging weed-whack

And render me laconic and my code, for this, Morse

Terse ain't no frickative, frackative, or worse

A colander of holes large enough for the garrulous

Kissing the Blarney Stone is a scurrilous curse

The use of one's tongue—all other times—fantabulous