Cellphone-Itis Poem by Pleasant Dabbs

Every illness has its symptoms;
Each sickness has its type
While some plagues may be fatal,
A runny nose sure makes me gripe

The doctors urge vaccinations
For all the deadly ailments
The other germs may bother you
Or cause you brief torments

This throe if and when you catch it,
No doctor can make you well
Your eyes get ruined and then your neck,
Your head and hands both swell

And it's easy to master,
But men want to be slaves
To their habits and their passions
Yes, they go down to their graves

With heads all bent, their eyes all squint
And kinks throughout their neck
From pounding letters, numbers,
Yes, their fingers are a wreck

There must now be some billions
With this dreaded disease
And all of you could be healthy
So listen to me, please!

Put down your cell, lift up your head,
And see life's greatest wonders
Look at the crowd (not at your phone) ,
Hear the swift stream (not the music) ,
Enjoy the rolling thunders

The next will be the hardest
And now I'm talkin' tough
Talk to all people face to face
And eye to eye's enough

Sir Apple will still have his place,
So don't think I'm a weirdo
Remember it's the people you embrace;
Talk to them and get near, Joe!

A programmed phone may call you
And recite some chatter senseless
But ‘one on one' takes walls down
And friends will make you fenceless

For other folks to reach you,
And to relate and talk and chatter
Talk with and see them face to face
Cause those things really matter

If that life is too ‘human',
And you think I'm full of crock
Then make a wish to leave this life
And come back as a rock.

c aaron