Borken Telephone (by Rock, Paper, Cynic)
Are you listening?
My phone’s got poems in it.
Overclock to rock the mic like I can’t wait the slow minute.
Wait the goal innit to repeat what I just heard?
I’m similar to Aaron Burr,
Or Aaron somebody-or-other who’s mad verbose.
I got a big old mouth and underneath my clothes
I got a big old heart and no container for it.
Trying not to enter entertainer territory.
Try to echo, but the phone requires fixing.
Might be fork-in-it time, that’s the bind it’s in.
Never mind, get some forty-sided dice
and anything with bubbles in it, New Year’s night.
As we enter the first and only of our 2016s,
once we’re both loaded up tell me what playing quint means.
Is it when you stare at your phone and everything’s terrible,
some carrot-topped fascist is in the news scaring you,
riling up the chuckle-headed militants everywhere?
When I look at it too long, bound to despair.
Rather repair to the big box and play Doom Three.
If it isn’t panacea enough it’ll soon be,
since we’re done for, whole planet dropping dead.
Operator help, I don’t know what he said.
Something suicidal literary loneliness pish-posh.
Just whisper to the next kid purple monkey dishwash.