Self portrait of a wordy child

I'm told I have a democratic voice
I strive so others understand
the things I speak and write,
or is it just that I found out
the simplest route
is very often plotted
in the most convoluted way?
When I was small
some snotty, snippy silly
neighbourhood girls
refused to play with me
because they said
they couldn't comprehend
the labyrinthine things I'd say.
All day long I'd listen
to their silly nursery rhyming:
Dip and dip and blue and ship,
bad and sad and good and bad,
words that didn't matter
filling up familiar space
with endless freckled chatter.
I spot them still
on the street, in a shop, in my mind
looking vexed and wrong
because they never grasped
no-one finds their way
out of the tangled maze
if all they ever learn to sing
are soppy, sentimental songs.