Dearest Jack,

You’ve fallen from grace this day

And tumbled low to the grave below.

You brought this on yourself (some say),

Your steely joint rigid and analog

In a wirelessly digital world.

 

Or were you killed?

Ripped from your 3.5mm womb

When you were breathing so steadily—

Confused by your newfound obsolescence.

 

I will miss your tangle

(Or will I?)

The cute frustration that I endured

All those years I got to know you.

 

I’m sorry, Jack—I truly am;

I would have loved to keep you on—

Provided you with utility into your old age

(Although some might say that 138 is old enough)

But I have no recourse here—

The game is set and I’ll have to accept fate eventually.

 

You will always be a fond memory

(For a few months at least).

And we shall write fine obituaries about you

(Until the next round of metaphorical beepers

Make their way to the front firing line).

 

The curtain’s pulled and the lights are dimming,

I suppose it’s time for a new beginning.

That’s a wrap, Jack.