She had a chainsaw
always at the back of her throat,
idling with a buzzing grumble
until meat was offered,
whereupon it revved violently
and leapt, its shrill teeth
cutting to stumps
(with modern impatience)
anyone who dared her
petrol-powered tongue.
Her mother spoke differently,
slowly,
hacking away with a measured,
methodical blade of irony,
taking her time
to enjoy every deep-cutting quip
from her old fashioned hatchet,
her generation knowing
the pleasures of a
long, hard day’s work
at a deliberate pace.
Her daughter had learned to lay
tripwires
which cut as they caught
whomever wandered unknowingly
into her booby-trapped sarcasm,
hogtying them
as they were gobsmacked with surprise;
she practiced her needlework
with all the exactness
of her forebears
and pleased herself most
when she had reassembled them anew
with her precocious patchwork
of derisive judgment.
Tangleroot And Tressknot 
Wow this is so good!
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Also, you will have to describe what yours is because I am in a thrall from your words.
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I tend to have a penknife with which I use to open the letters sent to me by these characters. They tell me what to write, and so I relay what they have addressed to me.
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