Sand Gets In Your Eyes

On Wieseltierian tears 

Oh blithersome couturier of wordifactious spewage,

Your loathsome predilection for effluxicating brewage

Has found its proper gallery in hurricanus sewage.

Oh odious splendiferatious tonguer of all piety,

Ambassador-at-very-large for platitudiniety,

Your prosody’s ontology’s all Sartric nullibiety.   

It’s thus we say, with due respect, and many years’ assizing:

Oh, literary colporteur, the words of your devising

Appear to land upon the page without palpable revising.