Dead Language

Dear reader I bring sad tidings,
as the future holds not hope
but the death of taste and art
where the vox populi
continuously murder language
each lazy shortcut
yet another knife into the noble body
that was once revered and worshipped
but will fall
to be trampled and besmirched underfoot
lying unheeded and hidden
beneath the ugly sounds
that blanket the land
a foul pox spread from one to another,
this accursed miasma
so entwined within the general populace
that to be without its insidious taint
to be eloquent and precise
is a feat inconceivable,
thus does the once fair and sweet language die
not by foreign conquest
but by the culture of the ex-colonial cousins
where bombastic ejaculations
are prized and honoured
in increasingly absurd ways;
where is commonplace
to defecate linguistically
and assault companions verbally,
these are dark times for the vernacular
as all etiquette and cunning speech
has been extricated and exterminated
at some unknown point.
Yet salvation for this sorry state
lies not ahead but behind,
in the tomes and tales of writers long deceased
their legacy is to form an underground language
that permeates beneath the base vernacular
so that such phrases and quotations
become second nature
their enchanted utterances
cutting through the effluvium
issuing half caught glimpses
of a dialect of decorum
forgotten, but not entirely lost.