Speak No Evil

Your prattle is the chang-chang-chang
of a wind-up chimp
clashing its cymbals:
the flash of brass,
the rictus grin.

Your clockwork guts rattle
and as the key in your back
grinds slower
your voice sinks
lower, lower?

Soon you've dropped
half an octave
and half the party's goggling.
Your jaw hangs open,
cocktail glass singing in either hand.