“Tut, Tut!” 
(Tongue-clucking grammarian, yo.) 
“Tut, Tut!” 
(Check your punctuation.) 

Anybody, wonder what you're up against? 
You get clucked at. Dense: your best defense, 
you jest. Relent! You're too bright not to do it. 
I go “foopth” on that (an onomato-poo-ic). 
And while I'm on the topic of Frontalot's tongue, 
I should mention that it's knotted but it comes undone, 
and as it unravels, the cluck emits. 
The discipline in your ear, stuck in your head like a 
hit (goes): 

“Tut, Tut!” 
“Tut, Tut!” 

Listening to hit records led to your sad state. 
You ought to take talk seriously. Put it to pate 
and it'll seep in. That's my supposition. 
And I suppose, in subjunction, if it did, I'd listen 
to what you said next for once. 
It's imperative! Take off the hat! The dunce 
needs it back and Front's on track to your brain. 
Seek now to retrain. The nerdcore refrain (goes): 

“Tut, Tut!” 
(Tongue-clucking grammarian, yo.) 
(Check your punctuation.) 

Quit arguing! You need your verbs to agree 
with their subjects' relative plurality, 
and I cannot believe grad school let you go 
when flunking is the only present participle that you 
know. 
Setting my flow by the modal auxiliary, yo: 
I should, shall and ought to aim the artillery 
so high overhead. Struggle to rise. 
One day, issue. The syllable that I emphasize (goes): 

“Tut, Tut!” 
“Tut, Tut!” 

I will throw tuts at inelegant couplets. 
You want to talk at me? You need more than luck, wits 
and charm when the tongue comes clucking 
every line you lay down, every error you tuck in. 
It's true I've been guilty on more than a song. 
I don't preach how I practice, and that's lifelong. 
If it's mine, I'm gone; can't reverse engineer it. 
But when y'all fuck it up, me and I get to hear it. 

“Tut, Tut!” 
(Tongue-clucking grammarian, yo.) 
“Tut, Tut!” 
(Check your punctuation.)