Mobile Phone

Hark, the gentle moan
of a dying mobile phone
its battery spent, its power gone
except to sing its swan song
and, with shrill insistent chime,
inform of its depleting time.

Oh, to be such a thing
that only needs to be plugged in
while such as I, no matter how I try,
must grow old - and die.

Let me spend my final hours
reclining amid tropical flowers
on a sun kissed beach by a turquoise sea
bikini'd maidens attending me
servicing my every need
my every want and my every greed.

Yet even there, with life so fine
my cup, brimful with wine
and the wine fine, and my cup large
I would still much rather - be recharged