I photocopied one of my favorite poems from an April 8, 1871 Harper’s Weekly.
My Old Coat by Mortimer Collins.
This old cell phone, it’s quite cracked, I must say
It was state of the art way back in the day.
There was no texting, or browsing, just a strip of a screen,
Like a pager on steroids, you know what I mean?
Upon activation, I poured in the names
Of the cute girls I knew, there were plenty of dames.
Some of them boring, a few much too nice.
In Favorites, the wild ones I’d underline twice.
I remember my Diedre, my sassy red head,
How she looked like an angel asleep on my bed.
I remember the joy in the ways we connected,
But alas, my cell phone wasn’t password protected.
Each name was discovered in my directory,
She, knowing each woman, personally.
Such a horrid mistake-cause of why I still miss her,
The worst name of all, being that of her sister.
My phone’s company died in the dot.com 90s,
Taken over by giants, charging double the fees.
A couple of upgrades, it served well enough,
Through the oncoming years, it wasn’t too tough.
As wanna be gigolos, flooding the scene,
We’re the first batch of lovers to score, sight unseen.
Though the screen became harder to read=aging eyes,
As our phones became smaller-egos doubled in size.
What a buzz, that it was! to be young at that time,
Soon our phones carried cameras and access online;
On the phone, “dropping trou” and uploading “the best”,
As some random non face would flash pics of her breast.
A lot of us now, our phone antics done,
Allow the new lovers their foolish ‘Net fun.
The phone works no more, just a black screen to view,
Reminding me, that I was, once, brand new too.
Note: Ten years after his death, a close family friend carefully collected the various works, in hopes of working them into music. I encourage going to this link
to read archived information concerning this volume of tribute and commentary by F. PERCY COTTON.