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My phone has learned quite well how to turn me on.

When I wake up in the morning, it softly vibrates down my thigh

while playing Color Me Badd real quiet like.

My phone used to be a teacher of economics.

Before that, it worked as bartender in a hotel bar.

I met my phone at that hotel bar. 

It poured me whiskey sour after whiskey sour.

My phone cut me off at six.

Six? 

My phone used to look out for me.

My phone told me one night 

that it had worked some Black Ops

under President Reagan.

I asked if it was involved in the Iran Contra affair.

My phone just went straight to a locked screen 

until its battery ran out.

My phone can be a tight-lipped sunnuvabitch about some things, 

that’s a fact, 

but it sure has gotten good here lately at turning me on.

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