I’m sure that we’ve all met before:
The tedious, crashing, social bore
Who loves the sound of his own voice;
So if we ever have the choice
We flee from his vicinity
Before we lose our sanity.
There’s one I know, a friend of friends,
Whose monologue just never ends –
Beginning with a detailed wealth
Of minor problems with his health
It then goes on to set the scene
Of every place he’s ever been,
Complete with what he saw and ate
While inwardly you’re cursing fate
And thinking as you tiredly nod
“I wish someone would shoot the sod!”
As bored as I am with his life
It seems to fascinate his wife
Who listens with her mouth agape
At version hundred of the tape,
Supplying now and then by rote
What he or she said as a quote.
But, weighing up a suicide
Or prompt, and double, homicide,
I thought that maybe in her case
Some pity wasn’t out of place:
Perhaps it’s not attention rapt –
She might be also feeling trapped.
