I have a friend called "Silent Bill,"
Aged ten, so says the Bible;
To me, in years, no word he's said—
Strange truth and not base libel.
He seems quite bright, and sees and hears—
In fact you'd think him normal;
But not a sound comes from his lips,
Not e'en to greeting formal.
When he's at home, so I am told,
It's talk, talk, talk, and chatter;
When I'm around, why is he dumb?
Explain, what is the matter?
Am I an ogre fierce and wild
With looks and mien ferocious
That cause to cling unto its roof
The tongue of this precocious?
"Oh, no!" says he, "you're not to blame."
(The answer comes by proxy.)
"The fault's not yours, but all guilt lies
With my dear mother, foxy.
I'd like to talk of lots of things—
But ain't my ma the limit?
She starts her tongue—so what's the use?
I'm out, 'less I butt-in it."
"It's 'seen not heard,' so I've been told,
Or else a strapping vi'lent.
I fear the gad, and that's why I
Remain still Bill-the-silent.
Now, when you scrap about her size
I'm mum, but try to figger
How she could squeeze in through the door
If she were any bigger."
"But when she twits you 'bout the thatch
You've lost from off your attic,
I'd like to reprimand her then
In language quite emphatic.
I've waited long and ground my teeth,
And frowned upon her patter;
But I'm convinced she'll ne'er run down—
She's stuffed with ceaseless chatter."

Dear Silent Bill, stay silent still;
To change, pray do not bother;
You're dearer far just as you are;
I'd true not have you other.