Alexander's Altar


The tingler ajangle with its cord all tangled,
The telephone is the altar we bow down to,
No matter if anthems with banners star-spangled,
If it rings, abort what you just got around to!

The grocery, the laundry, the druggist or bar,
The barber, the baker, any place you're bound to,
The mechanics, where you wait repair of the car,
When it rings, do they abort to confound you?

Sincere religionists must pray five times a day,
On the knees they will face a shrine of their choice.
We in our obeisance have a much harder way,
Anytime night or day we obey that shrill voice.

The salesman working you for the sale of his life,
At the moment of closure his telephone rings,
And as if a mad piper were trilling at his fife,
You're zilch and forgotten, as to worship he springs.

An internist starts to diagnose your disease,
To comfort and to prepare you for tomorrow,
His pager intruding, you will lie there and freeze...
Another's urgency, from which you can't borrow.

It is time for one theist to raise a dissent,
With mechanistic materialism to disagree,
Refusing to worship all these subservient
Objects, whose function was designed to please me!


--H. Arlequin 


 

 

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