If I had a pistol to hold in my hand
I'd hunt down and silence the Good Humour man,
I'd pour sticky ice cream all over his wound
and stop him forever from playing his tune.
For Silence is golden on a soft summers day.
It's a pity to let strangers take it away.
If ever I get me a license to kill
I'll war on the jukebox and jackhammer till
the wind and rain rust up all their parts
and the worms and the woodchucks dissect their hearts.
For silence is golden and hard to be found,
and killed far too often by the jackhammer's sound.
If diesels and dump trucks and gossips were words
I'd feed them like kernels of corn to the birds
and then all the thumping and bumping and pounds
would come out forever like pretty bird sounds.
For silence is golden and soft as a tear.
The soft sound of empty is the next voice you'll hear.