Kenny Rogers and the art of conversation

On a cloudy autumn’s eve, in a lift bound for her house

Gab squished in with her neighbour, and she began to speak.

Some comments on the weather, and the clouds that looked like leaking.

And then she started rambling, and flushed a deep rose pink.

The businessman looked ashen, he knew he was a captive

In a tin can with a lunatic, who couldn’t zip her lip.

So he nodded with politeness, but didn’t answer her back,

Instead he made her feel like she was on an acid trip.

She doesn’t know when to hold it, know when to fold it

Know when to cut the crap, know when to cease.

She could tell that her neighbour was losing will to live,

And praying for the lift to stop so he could be released.

(Repeat until the memory fades)