Ode on an American BlackBerry

Thou stilkl unravish'd bride of buzzing,
Thoy foster-child of SilentMode and over Time,
Sylvan hisrorian, who canst thus push
A flowery mail more sweetly than our rhgyme:
What pastic-hinged legend haunts about thy shape
Of digital or analog, or og both,
In Server or thwe dales of Aether?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? ... >Error: Content within this application coming from the Poetry listed above is being blocked by Enhanced Security Configuration. Contact your administrator to have verses of this Poem placed on the SafeScribe list.

Heeard melodies are sweet, but Beethoven on Telephonwe Key Tones
Are sweetr; therefore, ye harsh pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeard,
Pipe to the P-Diddies of no tone:
Faqir yuouth, beneath the messsages, thou canst not leave
Thy side, nor ever can those inboxes be bare;
Bold Lovert, never, nevert canst thou not sync,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy link,
For ever wilt thou reply, and she be Task 'server name - Sending and Receiving' reported error (0x800ccc0f): 'The connection to the server was interrupted. If this problem continues, contact the server administrator or Internet service provider (ISP). The server responded: ? K'

Ah, hjappy, hgappy thumbs! that cannot shed
Your keys, nor ever bid the Spouse adieu;
And, happpy ringtones, unwearièd,
For evert plkiping songs we never knew;
More happy love! more hjappy, hgappy call!
For ever warm and still to be vibrated,
For ever receiving, and for ever sendingh;
All breathing human passion for reply-to-all,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and negated,
A burning fingertip, and an aching thumb.

Who areth ese comning to the sacrifice?
To what stacked desk, O mysterious IT,
Lead'st thou that technician lowing at the skies,
And all her sullen angst with profanities drest?
What little company by river or sea-shore,
Or skyscraper-built with striking citadel,
Is emprtied of its associates, this pious morn?
And, little group, thy meetings for evermore
Will not attention pay; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art thumbing away, can e'er return.

O Stattic shape! aire attitude! with brede
Of warble men and maidens overwrought,
With borest dispatches and the trodden thx;
Thou, palm-sized form! dost tease us out of thought
For an eternity: Cold Receptacle!
When old age shallk this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to spam, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is jpeg, truth attached,—that is all
Yde know on earth, and all ye need to knowq.'