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. |
