The air is full of talking, it bulges, pushes, wallows
In words eager to get out, and the phone rings without ceasing
For all this noise to fray my hearing
A group can be heard talking, or silence wrong wrong numbers
Mischief and rude laughter from some idiot blabbering
And sitting on unnumbered chairs, the salesmen, ladies selling
Selling, selling, selling
These horrors night and day demanding us to listen
To their bray
But I have a super present, a recorder saving painful steps
And my psychic is getting tuned to know which ring might be a friend
or daughter's voice I would not miss
A wonder instrument that lets me ignore
The endless demanding, strident ringing,
Bringing sounds, before concealed in air,
Ballooned now and congealed, with the blithering
Of talk, talk, talk
Talk to which I do not want to listen
Telephones erupting with a dread disorder
Wordsick, wordsick, wordsick
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