I’ve always wished I spoke with a non-rhotic R,
my “Pa” pulling up even with my “par.”
I’d shuffle with great leisure through my slice of world,
expending less energy with my tongue less curled.
Folks would think I had come here from afar
and ascribe to me a childhood filled with riches,
a pampered coming of age in spa after spa,
courtesans there to remove my britches,
familiarity with wines and caviAHH…
and all else to suggest I was a cut above -
commanding fear and worthy of self-love!
Ah, this illusion from a more or less curled tongue,
giving shape to that self-same air from out my lung!
Linguists have declared it “phonic prestige”:
a master phoneme, its variants under siege.