The Cautionary Tale of Scrollin’ Joan
There once was a girl called Scrollin’ Joan
whose face was always glued to her phone.
From the time she was just a couple years old,
day-in and day-out she scrolled and scrolled.
If ever her feed would scroll to a stop,
“No matter,” she’d say. “I’ll scroll to the top.”
She scrolled on vacation. She scrolled on the job.
She scrolled while she buttered her corn on the cob.
She scrolled at the fancy Governor’s Ball.
She scrolled in a truck-stop bathroom stall.
She scrolled in the kitchen and scrolled in the tub.
She scrolled all her fingers right down to the nub.
So, she scrolled with her wrists and she scrolled with her nose;
once those were all gone, she scrolled with her toes.
She scrolled ‘til her eyes popped out of her head,
then scrolled as she lay in a hospital bed.
She scrolled with the doctor and scrolled with the nurse.
She died of Scrollitis and scrolled in the hearse.
She scrolled as they lowered her into the hole
and, for a millennium, that’s where she’ll scroll,
until archeologists dig up her bones.
They’ll gander and gawk at our primitive phones;
then, in a museum, she’ll perch on a stand—
a skeleton with a device in its hand.
There, mothers will point to this chilling display,
saying: “That’ll be you if you’re scrollin’ all day!”