See the gnomes tinker away.
Tink, tink, tinker.
So careful are they in the lingual mines,
and so practical, too.
Intricate and engineered structure they build.
There might be a little word alchemy here and there,
but not quite so often--
plain, after all, is not easily converted to their structures.

Suddenly, they scream in terror.
"It is a Beast of Trite," they cry.
"He breathes forth flaming cliches!"
"He will destroy what we have made!  Work harder still!"
Yes, little gnomes.
He is a beast of destruction.
But what of those who dance delightfully in the fires?
Terrible, yes, but could we tolerate
Your pomp and grandeur forever?
Nay, say I.
Once in a while, I enjoy those unoriginal pyrotechnics,
and not even your best-designed little Babels can save you.
In fact, so many of you rot away in catacombic tombs
built deep, tall and wide; you trap yourselves inside
hoping not to even be seared.

See me laugh upon such gnomish bones of overproud obscurity.

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