A baby burbling into a bib or a boy
busily twiddling his lower lip
with two fingers — or loading
a B-B gun.
Or Blehert babbling about his favorite music makers,
Bach, Beethoven, Beatles and Bela Bartok.
For a bigger burble, bring in Brahams, Berlioz, Bizet,
Benjamin Britten, Irving Berlin, Joan Baez, Anton Berg,
Bing, the Bel in Pacobel, the Bob in Dylan, the Buddy
in Holly, Balakirev, the Band, Lead Belly, the Byrds,
a bunch of bluesmen who begin with Blind, a bunch
of blueswomen who begin with Big Mama and the
Big Bopper. (Something in me refuses to include
the Barry in Manilow.)
But such a big burble uses up spit. I must hawk up
replenishment with a loud SHOSTACOVICH!,
then back to BBBBB . . .
or it could be a young professor, appalled by the mediocrity
of his students’ papers, but hesitant to wound their self-esteem,
busily marking their papers: B, B, B, B, B . . .