Parasitic Tendency

Who does not want to be one of those plumed people, smart as hell, who speak seven languages - drunk from the beautiful slurring of borrowed words sans inhibitions, the braided catch of the tongue at the roof of the mouth is a fastidious slum of savagery - dragging vowels and consonants at the tip of the tongue, teeth grinding at every syllable, the exquisite tempo of the words uncurls, pinning down every letter lithely, deliberately accomodating a language that reminds one of a volcanic spew?