A poor workman blames his tools
but really, my phone is so fucking out of date,
you wouldn’t believe it. 

I don’t need much 
to compose excellent poems,
but this piece of shit 
will not provide me ideas
or write the first 
five to eight lines for me.
Do you get it?

And it won’t surf the web, 
skimming other poetry
to find the best ideas to steal,
giving me abstracts from which to compose 
my own little mini-opi. 
That’s the plural of opus, isn’t it?
My phone should tell me this shit!

Really, it’s unacceptable. 
This device should be doing more for me. 
Ask not what this piece of crap is,
it ain’t a fucking thing.