If brevity's the soul of wit, then what is he? He won't shut up.
Is he the soul of witlessness? Perhaps. I may dub him
"Prattleship," a dreaded dreadnought lobbing ceaseless
Vollies of inanities at unsuspecting passers-by. He does
Not quail at repetition. What he told you once, he's apt
To say again a dozen times, and not one word is worth
Rehearing. Turn away. He'll follow you to lash you with
His flapping tongue. There's no relief, no hope of silence
Until you are far from him. If that occurs, you'll have
A chance to recollect your wits.