On Tender Hooks

Let me cut to the cheese:
every time you open your mouth,
I’m on tender hooks.

You charge at the English language
like a bowl in a china shop.
I wish you’d nip it in the butt.

On the spurt of the moment,
another eggcorn tumbles out.
It’s time you gave up the goat.

Curve your enthusiasm
and don’t give them free range –
or the chickens will come home to roast.

Sorry to be the flaw
in your ointment. You must think me
a damp squid, I suppose –

but they spread like wildflowers
in a doggy-dog world,
and your spear of influence grows.