Cold Calling Poem by Tom Billsborough

So you're out in the garden sunbathing
In your favourite canvas lounger
Nursing a drink of lager, or whatever you prefer
When, suddenly the telephone's ringing
With its sharp insistent tone.
Oh! Who the heck is that, you inwardly groan.
Some casual friend or enemy
Who's made your life a misery
By calling in the afternoon?

No, No, it's Blitish Glass or some such crew.
Who want to do a survey just for you.
Well, that's the usual selling line they pass.
Now, what do you do, my boy?
Well, you suddenly become the butler
You know, the one you don't employ
And put on a posh old accent in reply.
'Sorry, sir, his Lordship's not at home.
He's out a hunting foxes, I'm afraid.
Oh, hang on a mo. I hear the traces jangling
And the distant sounds of horns.
Could you please continue hanging
On a moment longer. Thank you sir.'
So you set down the receiver...
You naughty old deceiver..
And resume your sunbed dozing for a certain time
Helping yourself of course to a lager and a lime!

Or if you wish, become another character,
Perhaps a giggly maid from under-stairs.
It needs a high-pitched voice. Think Arias.
And the ability to act
With Oscar winning speechifying tact
That she, a mere serving maid is picked
For such a great and unexpected honour.
Be ready with your sighs, your sorrowful tears
When finally for are made to realise
It isn't you but your lord and Master who's required.
Now here you have a choice.
Show anger in your voice
Or adopt a pleading tone..
Anything to keep the beggar on the phone.
It could take twenty minutes or an hour or more
But one thing's sure. He won't ring you no more.
So off you trot and do enjoy your lager
In the peaceful setting of your sunny garden.