Tip of the Tongue


	Which science holds the highest glamour prize?
	It never quite depends on weight or size
	Of shiny apparatus, nor the store
	Of clearly kept, well-documented lore,
	But rather nearness to the primal source
	And root of mankind's inner strength and force,
	Which gives it power o'er the outer realm;
	Agreed it is that language holds that helm.
	Yet over speech another science rules
	And governs all our best linguistic tools:
	
	Gray grammar rears its care-carved crest on high,
	The ways of speech to man to justify.
	So words and syntax join to mold each gram
	Of meaning that inspires life's dithyramb.

			A Gram of Grammar

	A gram of grammar holds quite all you need:
	The roots extend from its embedded seed,
	That germ of nature, while the branches grow
	By aid of nurture's changing to and fro.

	The breeze of life creats the foliage
	Above the tree's instinctive anchorage:
	The system's basic form remains the same;
	The fractal clothing flutters like a flame
	That's moulded by the wind's enchanted brush,
	As mankind's tongue defines the noisy rush 
	Of sound that overbrims the dam of teeth
	With structured format slipped in underneath.

	So small the kernel that controls the whole,
	As outer body heeds the inner soul.