Bullhorn

Bullhorn

My phone makes me ill,
A constant stream of swill,
Regurgitated filth flowing forth,
Like garbage that lost its worth,
When once consumed it fell,
Into the brown, pungent swell,
My phone makes me sigh,
Reminds me of the lies,
Falling from the lips,
Of politicians and their quips,
Of security and faith,
And the nation the wraith,
My phone, to me, bleats,
Over and over repeats,
The dance of the honeybee,
Whispering promises to me,
Of sweet nectar and pollen,
Upon my ears, there, fallen,
My phone is the autumn rot,
Signaling death the winters brought,
Rustling in the breeze,
Where it bellows its sleeze,
Calling to me in time,
With that insidious chime,
It is my phone I despise,
For it only has cries,
Harboring only shame,
And an abundance of blame,
Of which none is for me,
Of which is reserved for thee.


Invino Veritas
8/26/15
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