O Gods of Philology, of Staffcraft
Why do I find remarkable
That I may call myself a speaker
Of a Romance language -- Romance!
Or that before every initial vowel
In German there's a glottal stop --
Der Knacklaut -- to mark a pause;
And that a rounded voiceless bilabial --
Two-lipped -- click is but a kiss;
That English tide is German for time;
And that I do may understand the tongues
Further north with not much trouble;
That Spanish embarazada for pregnant
Is no false friend -- it's in nineteenth-century Rio
(Is, not was, for it lies right here on my table);
Why do I feel the super-, preternatural
As I fail to recognize my own voice
In a language that now feels just half-foreign?

Why do I read more about this
In textbooks, old books and dictionaries
Than I do the lively and joyous
Morphemes of Shagspear the stage-bard?