When I was just a child, the phone
Would ring to let you know
That somewhere else a someone sat
Awaiting your ‘hello’;
You’d pick up the phone, or leave it alone;
And that’s how far you’d go.
And then there came the softening blow:
The answering machine,
That played (thanks to your greeting from
Attempt number eighteen)
Each message amassed, the first and the last,
And all those in between.
But Murphy’s law had barely seen
The things that we’d bemoan;
We sigh and roll our eyes at each
Our hunger for tools has made us such fools:
Won’t leave ourselves alone.