The Man Who Ate
Once started, he couldn't stop.
There were many more words that he'd ever thought possible,
and many more dictionaries.
Their paper varied from chewy
to ink-flavoured to newspaper-thin
but it was the words that really mattered,
apricity being the warmth of
Natiform he hoped his skull
He was not a know-all, an insufferable philodox
but a connoisseur, a gourmet.
He tasted words,
he feasted on words,
each word tasting better than swordfish
or loganberries, an exquisite, short-lived,
If you have any comments on this poem, Sheila Hamilton would
be pleased to