If you hurl ’twixt syll’bles a short linger,
like a light apnea snore.
Dudes who’re listening will be able
to grok the message’s core.

If a T in syllables is missing,
here’s wha’ migh’ be said:
“Swea’ is ’umbling on’o floor, a ho’ mop’s
go’ on where folks tread.

In your epiglo’is, ceases movement
briefly, then air blows
out un’il you complete phone’ic’lly
all your declared prose.

Up is rushing wind that ceases rising
for an instant…POW!
Then it makes a post-glottal rhapsody—
breath ain’t took away now.

Glottal stop is a stanched wind—
briefly you don’t breathe.
Glottal stop is a stanched wind—
though your chest don’t heave.

When the cords are strung as taut as cables,
they are very tight.
And at that instant there cannot speech be,
but that’s quite alright.

Opened mouth will soon be a breath clearer,
and resumes the speech.
This is something like taking a glott’ bite.
But just speak, don’t screech!

Glottal stop is a stanched wind—
briefly you don’t breathe
Glottal stop is a stanched wind—
cords don’t for long seize.

If a hold’s on the breath you’re airing,
it’s like a hose kink.
Then a buccal chuckle is enabled—
after which, a drink.
You’ll understand, though something’s wanting
in the words one speaks.
In the mouth where there’s palatal vaulting,
spelunkers don’t seek,
but spiel-lungers seek.

Glottal stop is a stanched wind—
briefly you don’t breathe
Glottal stop is a stanched wind—
till breath again leaves. Breathe.