by Linda Ann Nickerson

Created on: April 25, 2008

BROADCASTING BLUES

We're living with a sonic boom;
He's speaking from the other room.
With every phrase that he propels,
He cannot tell we block his yells.

We need no telegraphs or phones,
For he is heard in three time zones.
Our ears might heal again, I swear,
If he would just come up for air.

The folks across the street complain;
They cannot stand the sound profane.
"We hear you, buddy, loud and clear.
Turn down the volume, racketeer."

As he continues with his pitch,
We scramble for the power switch.
His battery may not wind down;
Perhaps we'll have to leave this town.

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