Editing tastes better with butter.
Chomping on syllables leaves a faint aftertaste of mint and fermented hilarity in one's mouth. Better wash that off with some titanium water before going to the cave to find the Muse. She's not very friendly, at times; especially when her hair gets tangled in the lightning drafts left by the ancient librarians. Bring a ceiling fan.
Spitting out those syllables will make them collect in a lump in a corner of the attic. There, they'll rearrange into a manuscript that looks like a cross between Linear B and the boring parts of Eleanor Roosevelt's diaries. It will wait at the peripheries of your hair extensions, looking for the opportune moment; the moment to strike. When that time comes, it will pounce on your guests, mess up your hairball collection, defile your tastefully decorated portraits of Alan Greenspan. Oh, the humanity! Oh, the embarrasment!