John Carter Brown
A Phone Call... Please
The telephone is melting
The wife's been on all day;
I need to get a call made
But don't know how to say.
How can I gently hint at
My need, without offence?
I see the eyes, that steely stare,
The pressure is immense.
I could go to the call-box
But out, it's pouring down,
And anyway, why should I?
Oh come on Mrs Brown!
Still open lies the phone-book
Which she don't really need,
She knows the numbers off by heart
And whacks them in at speed.
By now I feel a victim
I glance, and she's on still;
I'd only be five minutes,
And, Hey, I pay the bill!
But even so she natters on
As if next week will do,
So I make for the kitchen
To have yet another brew.
Then just as I am leaving,
My eyes a 'bulge and red,
It's then she hands it over, and guess what?
The battery's dead.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (A Phone Call... Please by John Carter Brown )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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