Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes: Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose. Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed The ground-bass is reciprocal mistrust. The names in fashion shuttling to and fro Yield, when deciphered, messages of woe. You cannot read me like an open book. I`m more myself than you will ever look. Will no one listen to my little song? Perhaps I shan`t be with you very long. A howl for recognition, shrill with fear, Shakes the jam-packed apartment, but each ear Is listening to its hearing, so none hear.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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