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The Mobile Phone

We want to keep in touch. But, do we really? And with whom?
Must pestilential commerce enter now each drawing room?
Each telephone as once devised by Alex Graham Bell?
Did he intend excess? That we should grovel in such hell?

My ancestors I well remember, in the Cambrian Hills.
They farmed their sheep for market. Their concern was health or ills.
Fat lambs or greasy mutton? Who would fill the coffers full?
The butcher ? Or the merchant tailor, paying well for wool?

And so they lived for centuries, without the telephone.
Robust good health sustained their line. I am not bred alone.
The lineage continues and it matters not a bit
That I haven’t met my cousin since a decade-come-last-Whit.

Love makes the world go round. We all make contact, just, somehow,
I recognise the horny hand: the high and thoughtful brow.
I know my stock. Intelligence. I recognise it through:
And privilege is mine to witness it, refreshed anew;

On either side. My Anglo-Saxon Father was another.
How I salute the day he happened, then, to meet my Mother.
What happened next I do not know: save that there was production
Of further issue in the line. I’m here by introduction.

And not by telephone. That is, as far as I can tell.
Their meeting was by social grace, or other magic spell,
Which let the world go round, devoid of wires electronic,
Or, Holy Cow, the mobile phone and contact supersonic.

Love makes the world go round; with the electrics incidental.
Enslavement to a phone will injure welfare fundamental.
Shove it in your pocket. See it sometimes, now and then,
But never once allow it to divert your a***en.

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