I hate the telephone and the problems it brings,
Each time the accursed thing rings.
It has to be answered, so THEY tell me.
Well-trained I’ve been, coerced if you will,
To yield to the call of that awful pill.
Far better too than a dog has learned,
To respond right away to its owner’s call.
It’s given that a dog loves its master,
I on the other hand loathe my interrupter.
Dragged and shoved, a slave I’ve become,
To an unwanted millstone of unwanted intrusions.
Intended to serve me? Really? Such delusions!
My only wish today is that the next call be,
A wrong number; for someone else; no, not me!
With all my being, the phone I fully detest,
Even more each whistle, the hated thing’s a pest.
And only to know once again it’s for me, but,
Never to know, “Where did THEY get my number?”