The Telephone

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?”

Written July 1998

The Oddblockstation Agent

The Last word:

  

The telephone I always dreamed of having at work but could never have... one that does not work.