Excoriate is one of those wonderful words that comes close to being onomatopoeic, at least in my mind.
One cannot say excoriate without making the harsh, almost abrasive sound reminiscent of sandpaper on wood. The word is one I find myself using often these days, more for its secondary definition than its primary; although, I can make both work in this poem.
Come clean, down to the brass tacks with steel wool, superfine grit sandpaper, and elbow
Grease. We hold these truths to be self evident, you elitist bastards, that ALL humans
Equally created have an irrefutable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Try as you might you cannot scrub these words from the collective memory of this country.