It's hit me, like flicking a tripswitch,
How a low a mere mortal may sink.
There's a man with no mobile in Ipswich:
It will probably drive him to drink.
With mobiles, we're all touchy-feely;
With mobiles, we're richer than Croesus.
There's a mobile-less woman in Ely:
God help her, she must be in pieces.
Without texting, your life's like a coma –
Can't speak, cannot get any gist.
There's a boy with no mobile in Cromer:
Poor beggar – how does he exist?
Gruel for the girl, or thin porridge,
When she's not on O2 or on Virgin.
And yes, there's a pauper in Norwich,
As if gutted of life by a surgeon.
Being poor doesn't mean that you scant on
Your clothes – or eat bread's deader crumbs.
It's a mobile-free babe in Hunstanton –
What on earth will it do with its thumbs?