I had written him a text
Which I’d sent, hoping the next
Time he came in mobile coverage
He’d have time to say hello.
But I’d heard he’d lost his iPhone,
So I emailed him from my smart phone,
Just addressed, on spec, as follows:
And the answer redirected
Wasn’t quite what I’d expected
And it wasn’t from the shearing mate
Who’d answered once before.
His ISP provider wrote it
And verbatim I will quote it:
‘This account has been suspended:
You won’t hear from him any more.’
In my wild erratic fancy
Visions come to me of Clancy:
Out of reach of mobile coverage
Where the Western rivers flow.
Instead of tapping on the small screen,
He’d be camping by the tall green
River gums, a pleasure
That the town folk never know.
Well, the bush has friends to meet him
But the rest of us can’t greet him:
Out there, even Telstra’s network
Doesn’t give you any bars.
He can’t blog the vision splendid
Of the sunlit plains extended
Or tweet the wondrous glory
Of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting at the keyboard,
I’m too stressed out to be bored
As I answer all the emails
By the deadlines they contain.
While my screen fills with promotions
For ‘Viagra’ and strange potions
And announcements of the million-dollar
Prizes I can claim.
But the looming deadlines haunt me
And their harassing senders taunt me
That they need response this evening
For tomorrow is too late!
But their texts, too quickly ended,
Often can’t be comprehended
For their writers have no time to think
They have no time to wait.
And I sometimes rather fancy
That I’d like to trade with Clancy:
Just set up an email bouncer
Saying ‘Sorry, had to go.’
While he faced an inbox jamming
Up with deadlines and with spamming
As he signed off every message:
With apologies to A B (Banjo) Paterson.