The Girl Who Talks Too Much

I’m glad they’re here to see the day
that I have nothing left to say.

Suddenly words seem such a chore.
Enunciation has become a bore.

No one heard when I sang my little song.
If they listened they’d interpret it wrong.

I’ve said my piece, and scratched and fought.
Every time I lost, and so I thought.

Happily, they can’t judge what they can’t hear.
I’ve no opinion, to speak of, to hate or fear.

But when I’m sick of injustice, world-weary and sore,
There’ll come a day when I think no more.