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Sunday, December 21, 2014

You done me wrong, Wall Street Journal

Found at the Harris-Teeter, Tysons Corner, Virginia

And I don't read you any more.

Stood up and broken-hearted again, Wall Street Journal.

A "no show" for five days out of six.

Who would last that long with any lover?

I get the message, Wall Street Journal:
You don't love me any more.

I called,
I tweeted,
I bawled!
And pleaded.

Your henchpeople promised you'd call me back!

You didn't.

How can you do this to a longtime lover, Wall Street Journal?

You did.

Three years ago when I recommended that you double-date with WAPO so you would arrive on time and on the day promised, you ignored me.

I cried,
I tweeted;
And wrote;
And bleated

Finally, you got the message, Wall Street Journal

But now, the end is here
And in you go, the recycling bin,

My friend, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain
I read a paper that was full
I read each and ev'ry weekday
And more, much more than this, you did it your way


Regrets, I've had a few
I gave you many chances, a lot to mention
I ignored what I had to do and saw through without exemption
You had no plans for a charted course,

each careful step along the highway
And more, much more than this, 

You did it your way

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When you charged more than what was due
But through it all, when there was doubt
I paid it up, you had some clout
I faced it all, and I was small, you did it your way


For what's a girl, what has she got?
If not respect, then she has naught
To say the things she truly feels and not the words of one newsreel
The record shows I took the blows;

You did it your way!

And now we've split up,
We've gone our byways,
I am sick of you and all the chances
I gave to you to make advances
You did it your way.

We are not the door mats on the doormat of life like you treat us, Wall Street Journal, all the subscribers you've disappointed, teased, and tormented. The doormat, where I always hoped to find you.

Herstory now.

By the time I get to Phoenix,
You may be in Brooklyn
By the time I make Albuquerque
You may give me a call
But you'll just hear that phone keep on ringing
Because it's on silent, that's all
You've dumped this girl, so many times before
You just didn't know
I would really go

One can only wonder...

Why doesn't the Wall Street Journal write an article about its own lousy customer service?

patricialesli@gmail.com

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