He would like to talk a while
There's a thing upon his chest
There are things that you are good at
Those are things at which he's best
Listen close to what he's saying
It's his turn to speak, not yours
But when yours comes, he'll hum a ditty
In his head to dim the norze
Hammer & tongs, hammer & tongs
Let him tell you how you're wrong
Locked in endless consternation
Anxious, dismal, torpid songs
But you keep on banging on
Like there's something to be done
But he's awash in indignation
Sure that he's the flawless one
