Cold Caller

Cold calls are the bane of many a life, but Max's poem about the call centre industry offer a little light relief, but sadly no solution.


Poems of love and hate


Grumpy old man poems


It's For You

I hear my phone a-ringing and naively I pick up,
There's a man on tape informing me that I've won a plastic cup,
And if I dial this premium number, huge riches will be mine,
But as he is not human, it's quite easy to decline.

And so I start to walk away, but the phone it rings again,
Have I purchased PPI before two-thousand-ten?
I press the hash-marked button and they transfer my phone call,
To electronic music that you can hear along the hall.

A man in India answers, it's after ten at night,
And he sounds quite dull and sleepy, and certainly not bright,
He tells me that he surely can, for percentage, make me rich,
But I put the phone down on him as my face begins to twitch.

So I go and get a pillow and put it o'er the phone,
Then with pliers cut the wire thing without a sigh or moan,
Ah, peace at last, I duly cry, no more I'll be beguiled,
When suddenly the phone it rings, it fairly drives me wild.

I've cut you off, I madly scream, the caller says, not so,
We keep a back-up system, so we can reach you, Bro.
But we're here to serve and comfort you, this is no tease or hazing,
Just four and twenty bright young men to sell you double glazing.

Enough, I cry, enough, enough, then I chopped down the pole,
And burnéd down the phone exchange and dammed its very soul.
But still I heard a ringing, it came with stealthy guile,
For though I'd knocked down everything, I still had my mobile.

Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved

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