Tap, tap, tap, their little fingers fly — Their heads are dead I said.
Poor babies, too much phone.
Eyes glassy, lips sassy, butts gassy.
Necks bent like old flamingos.
So young, looking so damn old.
Imagination murdered by the hour.
Turn it off please, you can’t breathe.
No they scream, my phone is life.
Bedroom lights on at 2:00 a.m.
Tap, tap, tap, their little fingers…