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If I had a pistol to hold in my hand |
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I'd hunt down and silence the Good Humour man, |
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I'd pour sticky ice cream all over his wound |
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and stop him forever from playing his tune. |
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For Silence is golden on a soft summers day. |
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It's a pity to let strangers take it away. |
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If ever I get me a license to kill |
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I'll war on the jukebox and jackhammer till |
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the wind and rain rust up all their parts |
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and the worms and the woodchucks dissect their hearts. |
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For silence is golden and hard to be found, |
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and killed far too often by the jackhammer's sound. |
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If diesels and dump trucks and gossips were words |
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I'd feed them like kernels of corn to the birds |
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and then all the thumping and bumping and pounds |
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would come out forever like pretty bird sounds. |
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For silence is golden and soft as a tear. |
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The soft sound of empty is the next voice you'll hear. |
