SIR,

Little red telephone box, I dedicate this ode to you,

Driving lately I noticed they're decommissioning a few.

In youth you were 10p for that precious call,

Last heard was 60p: how the mighty did fall.

Down through my childhood you were always there,

Whenever in trouble a phone call to someone to care.

On rainy dog walkies you were someone to hide in,

Now where does that leave me, under the lid of a bin?

Saturday's nights drunks on you would be everywhere sick,

Years later, visiting with their kids, consciences did pick.

Vandals tried to wreck your dear little phone,

Leaving the next caller, me, to moan and groan.

Still I'd come back to you whenever in need,

And your big tummy with 10pences I'd feed.

Where will I go when my silly mobile won't work?

Traitor, serves you right for using one, you smirk.

Yes, thinking it over we all played a big, big part,

In your downfall, breaking your enormous red heart.

Now BT's trying to exterminate you like the British fox,

I'll never forget you, my dear little red telephone box.

Roo

(Monmouth)