My Kettle Boils With Rage at a Pre-Paid Secular Phone

My chicken stock, homemade, doth simmer slow,
Its fragrance lightly wafts around the room.
Nearby, my brand new cell phone, it doth glow,
And taunts me with text messages that loom
Unread because I'm now in cell phone hell.
The new one is supposed to work but won't.
The old one sits, a sad cell-phone shaped shell.
I think of throwing it; of course I don't.
It's time right now to skim away the scum
That's bubbled to the surface of my broth.
This soup's a balm; it's proof that I'm not dumb,
Just impotent right now. I seethe in wrath.
Without my broth and collie I'm alone
To wait the plodding pleasure of Tracfone.