Cell Phones Are Too Much with Us

With apologies to W. Wordsworth

by Xander Floss

CELL phones are too much with us; late and soon,
Roaming and ringing, we lay waste our hours
Little we say in public that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, we selfish goons!
The chatter who yells his secrets to the room,
The talker standing in the way like a tower,
Are waiting to be mowed down like bleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
Hear me now.--Goddamn! I'd rather be
An Amishman raised up in a backward dell;
So then I, standing in a field of corn,
Have glimpses that would make life less like hell;
Walk and talk with 'becca on a sunny morn;
Or hear old man Lapp ringing a cow bell.

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