Quiet

Hot, isn't it?

No. 

It was cold yesterday, wasn't it?

No. 

It'll rain tonight, won't it?

Wherever you are, it's raining all the time. 

Hoy-oy-oy-oy-oy!

What's the matter, lady?

I'm homesick. 

For where?

For everywhere but here. 

I've tried so hard to remember. Do I move toward you or away from you?

Away from me if possible. 

No doubt you'll think I'm giving in

To petulance and malice

But in candor I am forced to say

That I'm sick of gracious living in

This stuffy little palace

And I wish that I could leave today

I have suffered a lot

And I'm certainly not

Unaware that this life has its black side

I have starved in a ditch

I've been burned for a witch

And I'm missing the half of my backside

I've been beaten and whipped

And repeatedly stripped

I've been forced into all kinds of whoredom

But I'm finding of late

That the very worst fate

Is to perish of comfort and boredom

Quiet. 

It was three years ago

As you very well know

That you said we would soon have a wedding

Every day you forget

What you promised, and yet

You continue to rumple my bedding

I'll no longer bring shame

On my family name

I would rather lie down and be buried

No, I'll not lead the life

Of an unwedded wife

Tell me, when are we going to be married?

Quiet. 

I was once, what is more

Nearly sawed in four

By a specially clumsy magician

And you'd think I would feel

After such an ordeal

That there's charm in my present position

But I'd far rather be

In a tempest at sea

Or a bloody North African riot

Than to sit in this dump

On what's left of my rump

And put up with this terrible quiet

When are we going to be married?

Comfort and boredom and quiet

When are we going to be—

Quiet!