Let me tell you about the gossipy
woman...
The longer I linger the more I believe
That a gossiping woman is a mental disease,
She scatters her slander wherever she roams,
neglecting her children and duties at home.
She wears out her body distributing news,
likewise her welcome, her stockings and shoes
She knows when a stranger moves into the place,
then she calls on them smiling with her Sunday face.
"I'm your new neighbor from over the road,"
then she quite blandly proceeds to unload.
It's my Christian duty to give you a hunch,"
then she confidentially hands them a bunch.
"This is the worst neighborhood ever I saw
for women to tattle and husbands to faw.
Their children are such, they pilfer and lie.
We'd sell out our holdings if someone would buy."
Then she rattles on about neighbors and friends,
tongue hung in the middle and loose at both ends.
There's no one excapes her, neither old age nor youth,
and never confining herself to the truth.
She'll canvas the district, then go to the next.
She keeps the whole neighborhood worried and vexed.
She knows all the happenings in village or street,
She's got the newpapers and telephone beat.
She plies her vocation from morning 'til night,
And it spreads o'er our souls like a withering blight
Just one last reminder, though I've not told you half,
you don't have to wind her like an old phonograph.
Now here's another poem I wanta
tell...
HEARSAY...
In every town, in every street,
In nearly every house you meet
A little imp, who wriggles in,
with half a sneer and half a grin,
and climbs upon your rocking chair
or creeps upon you anywhere,
and when he gets you very near,
just whispers something in your ear.
Some humor or another shame,
and little "hearsay' is his name.
He never really claims to know,
He's only heard that it is so.
and then he whispers it to you
so you will go and whisper too.
For if enough is passed along,
the rumor even though it's wrong.
If John tells Henry, Henry, Flo,
and Flo tells Mildred, and Mildred, Ruth,
It very soon may pass for truth.
You understand this little elf,
He doesn't say he knows himself.
he doesn't claim it's really true,
He only whispers it to you
Because he knows you'll go and tell
some other whiperers as well,
And so before the setting sun,
he gets the Devil's mischief done,
and there is less of joy and good
around the little neighborhood.
Look out for 'heresay' when he sneaks
inside the house then slander speaks,
Just ask the proof in any case
Just ask the name, the date, the place,
and if he says he only heard,
declare you don't believe a word.
And tell him that you'll not repeat
the silly chatter of the street.
However gossips smile and smirk,
refuse to do the devil's work!
Let me tell you about the gossipy
woman...
The longer I linger the more I believe
That a gossiping woman is a mental disease,
She scatters her slander wherever she roams,
neglecting her children and duties at home.
She wears out her body distributing news,
likewise her welcome, her stockings and shoes
She knows when a stranger moves into the place,
then she calls on them smiling with her Sunday face.
"I'm your new neighbor from over the road,"
then she quite blandly proceeds to unload.
It's my Christian duty to give you a hunch,"
then she confidentially hands them a bunch.
"This is the worst neighborhood ever I saw
for women to tattle and husbands to faw.
Their children are such, they pilfer and lie.
We'd sell out our holdings if someone would buy."
Then she rattles on about neighbors and friends,
tongue hung in the middle and loose at both ends.
There's no one excapes her, neither old age nor youth,
and never confining herself to the truth.
She'll canvas the district, then go to the next.
She keeps the whole neighborhood worried and vexed.
She knows all the happenings in village or street,
She's got the newpapers and telephone beat.
She plies her vocation from morning 'til night,
And it spreads o'er our souls like a withering blight
Just one last reminder, though I've not told you half,
you don't have to wind her like an old phonograph.
Now here's another poem I wanta
tell...
HEARSAY...
In every town, in every street,
In nearly every house you meet
A little imp, who wriggles in,
with half a sneer and half a grin,
and climbs upon your rocking chair
or creeps upon you anywhere,
and when he gets you very near,
just whispers something in your ear.
Some humor or another shame,
and little "hearsay' is his name.
He never really claims to know,
He's only heard that it is so.
and then he whispers it to you
so you will go and whisper too.
For if enough is passed along,
the rumor even though it's wrong.
If John tells Henry, Henry, Flo,
and Flo tells Mildred, and Mildred, Ruth,
It very soon may pass for truth.
You understand this little elf,
He doesn't say he knows himself.
he doesn't claim it's really true,
He only whispers it to you
Because he knows you'll go and tell
some other whiperers as well,
And so before the setting sun,
he gets the Devil's mischief done,
and there is less of joy and good
around the little neighborhood.
Look out for 'heresay' when he sneaks
inside the house then slander speaks,
Just ask the proof in any case
Just ask the name, the date, the place,
and if he says he only heard,
declare you don't believe a word.
And tell him that you'll not repeat
the silly chatter of the street.
However gossips smile and smirk,
refuse to do the devil's work!
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