Loquatious Loquatious

If it were a kindling word
That sets this fire ablaze
I knew it not to be so hot
To start this angered craze

The tongue is quick to slander
Commanding all it entreats in word
Like sharp scissors gnashing
To clip the wing of bird

This organ of quick-foot affront
Rests little in its cavern
Protected in its cowardice
But eagerly resumes its pattern

Of saucy anarchy
And harmful conjugations
Fully flippant in its discontent
None can jar its recitation

It so fears the world at large
That it resolves to break it down
With molten derogation
To attain its cheated crown