You open lips and yammer on,
unmindful of your listener’s yawn.
We yearn to hear your final word,
but when we think that it’s been heard—
your topics trite, your point invalid—
you treat us all to more word salad!
Your prosery and versity
display little diversity,
and yet, my dear, both night and day,
you sputter words—a constant spray.
We yearn to hear your lips are sewn,
for we have stories of our own!