He’d never experienced feeling alone,
Not with his iPod and swanky smartphone.

But when the Twitter app froze and Facebook crashed,
He sat in the pub intent on getting smashed.

Six or seven pints for liquid relief,
Turned to those thoughts hidden beneath.

He dreamt of the girls who slipped through his fingers,
Some of them hot, but most of them mingers.

That kiss with Mark for a drunken bet,
His lips all pert, soft, warm and wet.

The machine that pumped his gran’s lungs with air,
As she lay in bed with lank, messy hair.

Daddy painting over Jen’s bedroom walls,
Mum packing up unused nappies, blocks and balls.

His phone vibrated and Twitter was back,
Thank God it’s Friday! Hashtag, feel like crap.

© Carl Burkitt 2012