On top of Old Smokey, a wise man was perched
Admiring his plants in their pots
When into his vision, there suddenly lurched
A teenager covered in spots
“Oh, hi!” called the youth, “I’ve been looking for you
You’re known as a bit of a sage.
My Mum says I might learn a good thing or two
From one of your wisdom and age.”
The wise man looked up from his fine Busy Lizzie
And said, with a voice dry as hay,
“Please try not to fidget, you’re making me dizzy
Sit down. Better still, go away!”
“Oh no,” cried the youngster, “you’re not being fair
You don’t even know why I’ve come!
I’ve ridden all day on my horse over there
I’m worn out, and I’ve a sore bum!”
“It’s not half as sore as it’s going to be,”
Said the sage, “if you stand there and moan
So either explain why you’re bothering me
Or push off and leave me alone.”
“Thing is,” cried the youngster, “I need some advice
On how to be clever and quick
‘Cause none of the girls ever looks at me twice
They all think I’m dim as a brick!
“Please tell me the secret of wisdom an’ stuff
In words even I’d understand.
I need it made simple and punchy enough
To write on the back of my hand.”
“Be silent, my son,” the old wise man replied,
“And try to go into a trance
Switch off all the chatter that’s boiling inside
And give your poor brain cell a chance
“In silence you’ll find all the wisdom you need
There’s really no reason to fear it
You’ll find inspiration, it whispers indeed
And that’s why you can’t seem to hear it.
“Keep silent, and if they suspect you’re a prat
Believe me, it’s better by far
Than spouting opinions to this one and that
And proving how stupid you are!”