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 phone, Just addressed, on spec, as follows: clancy@theoverflow
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 will hear from him no 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 And 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 ‘V1aggra’ and strange potions And announcements of the million-dollar Prizes I can claim.
But the looming deadlines haunt me And their harrying 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: clancy@theoverflow