They chatter and mutter and natter no matter the butter still melts in their mouth,
that's why I'm heading South to an Island I know to sit in the Sun and the sand and watch a palm tree grow,
I like coconut milk, sweet and soft as silk to the tongue, in the sun and the sand with my hand on my heart one day I'll start to head South.

They murmur germ warfare, which, though valid is not fair, it's not anywhere I go or know and not in the Sun,
they'll blither and blather and work themselves into a lather, I'd rather stay silent and calm watching the palm in the palm of my hand on the sand, in the sun, heading South.