Put away the phone, they say.
Your eyesight will start to wither away;
You don’t want to wear eyeglasses
Before your fiftieth birthday.
Your vision will slowly fade to black
And your ears will try to make up for the lack
Of light striking your retina.
You’ll hear the crawling of sticky spider legs
And the hoarse breathing of the man on the corner who begs,
Birds laying eggs,
Workmen hammering pegs,
People in McFadden’s Saloon downing kegs upon kegs.
Your ears will receive sensations that will drive you mad;
You’ll go batty and wacky and become oh so sad.
PLEASE, don’t stare at your phone, it’s bad;
It’s not worth it-
Don’t be like your dad.