Prate

In Cavendish Square, beneath the lime-tree's shade,
Where chattering magpies trade their foolish brigade,
A prattling crowd gathers, loud and unreasoned,
Their tongues like windmills, by nothing fueled or grounded.

They prate of the weather, the price of old lace,
Of Aunt Mabel's bonnet and who kissed whose face,
Of politics muddled with gossip and tea,
While wisdom walks by, unnoticed, unbidden,
Its counsel dismissed as mere codswallop, begone—
For prattle, like gossamer, melts in the sun.

Oh, prat-tle-tat-tat! A relentless, thin stream,
That drowns out the sense in a day-dreamer's dream—
No weight in the words, just a flutter, a fuss,
Like sparrows disputing a crumb omnibus.
The clock in the steeple marks time they've mislaid,
While substance sinks silent, and prate wins the parade.

So let the wise speaker hold fast to his peace,
Where sense, not just syllables, finds its release.
For prate fills the air with a frothy, thin foam,
While truth, like deep waters, waits quiet at home.
Let chatter be chatter—let praters have at—
Some words are best left unspoken, like that.