There once was a man from Ascension
Who was a world-class syntactician
But when he tried morphology
His reductionism was too heavy
So now he is nothing but a phonetician.
Language and Word trashed some research
Of mine that they said would just besmirch
The state of the art
And make to lose heart
The laity of the Chomskyan high church.
There are languages made without sound,
And these, we’ve discovered, abound.
For each Deaf community
Strengthens its unity
By sharing its language around.
The hazard of writing a triolet
While riding in a cabriolet,
Is each bump in the road
Spills an inky load,
Thus staining my trousers with violet.
How it parses is a mystery
Of the syntax. Unresolved: the stress,
Cadence, repeats—changed its history
How? It parses! Is a mystery
Thus perforce a source of obloquy?
“Buffalo...” is not the clear success
“How it parses” is. A mystery
Of the syntax unresolved! The stress!
Linguists are kinky!