Caruthers flustered others
with his glib incessant gab.
The worst abuse life could unloose
would be to share a cab.
He’d talk until your ears turned red.
your anvil bled and eardrums missed a beat.
He’d find you in the office, in the loo, the pub
or elsewhere on the street.
As words flew by, you’d want to cry,
you’d wish for death’s sweet knell.
If after death he rose above,
you’d definitely opt instead for hell.
And when his chatter ended,
listeners slumped by its fierce toll,
he’d grab a sleeve, say, "Hey, don’t leave!
I’ve just got on a roll."