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Nigel Lloyd poetry

Predictive Text

I am not really a fanbelt of that predictive text

It’s giving meat loads of grief

I would steal a manuel on how to correct it

If only I was a thief.


I’ve spoken to the staff at the phone shop

Who Canterbury help me with my plight

At one point I threw the phone at them

Saying “take bacon your pile of shite”.


I know I am getting on a bit

And technology is not my thing

But I need a phone that when someone needs me

The bugger will vibrate and ringworm.


The mobiles now are very light

Where as my old phone’s made of stone

I don’t have a camera or any apps

I only use it as a phonebox.


Everything’s typed out in full

No abbreviations or emoji face

Every full stop and comma

Is in the right placebo.


Should I invest in a hands free kitten

For when I am out on the road?

I feel like going back to a more reliable system

Good old morsel code.




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