In the days of the glorious smartphone,
Dearly beloved by every heart known.
To make a sole call
Fills me with gall.
From my brain has every good part flown.
The most terrible things about books
Are the awfully puzzled, cruel looks
You get from afar
As you sit in your car,
Reading and read-ending schnooks.*
As you serve up an order of ribs,
All who can smell will shout “Dibs!”
The aroma of smoke,
Draws every near bloke,
To sit down and don their cheap bibs.
Writing your poem as a Limerick
Is like building a home with slimmer brick.
The whole thing may rhyme,
And keep perfect time,
But everyone knows it’s a Gimmerick.
*No books, cars, or drivers where harmed in inspiring this drivel.
Hardscrabble 