Wednesday, December 3, 2008

About an ode to cell phone talking

(Apologies to John Keats)

O thou unravished bride of ringtones,
Thou foster-child of minutes lost,
Obsidian recorder of my spent time,
Flowery conversations less stately than this rhyme.
What mythical tale has come to thy ear,
Of husband or daughter or friend held dear,
In car or home or grey-walled cubicle?
What whacky people these? What friend gone nuts?
What errand gone mad? What struggle to escape?
What radio rhythm? What wild ecstasy?

Unheard conversations are sweet, but those heard
Drive you crazy. Therefore, keep thy conversations to thyself.
Not only to my ear, but to those
Fair friends, caught in cars or office near, who cannot leave
Thy voice; nor ever can that story be ended;
Bold talker, thou can never shut up
Though my hand hovers near your mouth;
Yet for this interruption I cannot grieve;
Volume cannot fade, for thou has not thy bliss
Forever wilt though talk, and me overhear!

O rectangle shape! Fair little keyboard!
If only men and women would text,
With quick fingers and quiet mien,
Thou silent form! Nothing teases us out of anger
As dost a hang-up. Dear reader, that's cold.
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of our communication,
So this, face to face, to thou I shall say,
"Shut up! or I shall throw that ******** phone into tomorrow" -- that is all
I need to say, or anyone needs to know.

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