Baby, can you hear me squallin”?
Each line infused. . .
Implicit warning:
it’s Latinous, my calling.

I drone and prate,
so your fate
is hear these riffs.
Baby, verbal glyphs
are Latinous,
inducing miffs.

Shoe fly, [sic]
bang my crown,
bruise on my head,
dimpled wimple mound,
While Hindus cowtow [sic].

Don't let those Backbones [sic] slip
while fingers glide.
I talk sic. . .fingertip blunders:
digits race on a poisoned parody.
I’m afflicted here too.
I’m gaffe-frayed [sic] that I talk sic
no matter what I do.
I’m afraid that I talk sic.

It’s getting late;
I’ll take some sup,
during which slips
me, and it’s up.
Sloely [sic]
that cup will comfort me.

I’m high;
erased, my frown.
So I don’t care
how bad [sic] I expound
I’m feeling it now.

They say loose lips sink ships
under the tied [sic].
I talk sic. . .fiddle-lip blunders.
Minutes wasted on a parlous parody;
I’m afflicted here too.
I’m gaffe-frayed [sic] that I talk sic
no matter what I do
I’m afraid that I talk sic.

Intalksicated [sic] now,
fiddle-flubbing, wow!
I think I better [sic] vow
to detalksicate [sic] now.