A Phone Call... Please Poem by John Carter Brown

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.