Classic Poem

With not a faithful lackey nigh,
With all my vast resources spent,
I find myself enshrouded by
The winter of my discontent.
Gone are the hours of tranquil bliss
I fondly used to count mine own,
And I, at last, am come to this —
The running of a telephone!

Before I took this paltry thing
That keeps a-jingling all the day,
I was a most puissant king,
And most despotic was my sway.
Proud was my lot and proud my mien;
I sat upon a gilded throne
And bossed a radical machine
Where now I boss a telephone!

Pause, O ye countrymen of mine,
And drop a sympathetic tear,
And carve to me this touching line:
" Oh, what a falling off is here! "
Dear Riddleberger and Mahone,
Grant sweet surcease unto my woe
By wafting through my telephone
A fond, occasional hello!