Riddle Me This, Batgirl!

Vuks ot znk Qke ul MM

What if someone
invented a language
out of clones of the 7th letter,
and "Baby juice, Baby juice?"
Then served it in short texts
or long conversations?
The words would look ordinary
but be filled with peanut butter,
they might sweeten in the sun,
but never darken with brown spots
or become mushy.
How would such a language
wear its hair?
Swept up into a knot
that resembles a rose
or falling over like a fountain?
The punctuation would be
formed with white chips
and black straws,
the conjunctions shopped for
at Barneys New York,
the interjections minty green
and only available
every March.
The letter "V" would be red
and visit small screens
every Tuesday night,
the letter "N"
would not mean "North",
nor "S" mean "South"
(who could find them anyway)
the other letters would all
be small walnut tiles
on mahogany racks
that you could switch around
in your head.
The pet phrases would be furry
and small enough to fit in a purse
(although they might rattle
with snores all night long).
This language would know
"Coffee Can Make You Black"
and contain a "Litany"
and beautiful "Puzzles"
with a secret "At Dawn"
that might escape the notice
of even the Queen of Google.
All liquid sentences would
be pressed from soy into Silk,
the vowels have
straight white teeth
and none of the consonants
would be composed
of custard.
Nor would any of its paragraphs
dig Lime Green Gators,
contain pig parts,
or tolerate runny eggs.
Who could comprehend
such a thing?
Surely it could make no sense?
If one fell asleep listening,
could you set it
to shut off after 15 minutes?
And what could one
create with
this new lingo?
Any poem written in it
would surely
be ticklish all over.
Perhaps something bold
as the toasted bagels of eternal joy
or mundane as "Get Well soon."
I do not know
how long it might take
to master it,
but I would retire every night
reciting its random sonnets,
then roll over each morning
to search again
for the warm secrets
of that esoteric tongue.