A Well there is in the west country,
    And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
    But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
    And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
    Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
    Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from the cock-crow he had been travelling,
    And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
    For thirsty and hot was he,
And he sat down upon the bank
    Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by
    At the Well to fill his pail;
On the Well-side he rested it,
    And he bade the Stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he,
    "For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
    That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
    Ever here in Cornwall been?
For an if she have, I'll venture my life
    She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here."
    The Stranger he made reply,
"But that my draught should be the better for that,
    I pray you answer me why?"

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time
    Drank of this crystal Well,
And before the Angel summon'd her,
    She laid on the water a spell.

"If the Husband of this gifted Well
    Shall drink before his Wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,
    For he shall be Master for life.

"But if the Wife should drink of it first,—
    God help the Husband then!"
The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne,
    And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?"
    He to the Cornish-man said:
But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake,
    And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
    And left my Wife in the porch;
But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
    For she took a bottle to Church."

With fingers weary and worn,
And eyes heavy and red,
A person sits, all alone, forlorn,
A phone held tight in bed.
Swipe! Scroll! Swipe!
Through the newsfeed's endless flow,
And still, with a vacant stare, they type,
In the phone's pale, ghostly glow.

Tap, tap, tap,
On the glass, cold and bright,
'Til the sun outside starts to lap,
And shadows yield to light.
Oh! Men with sisters dear!
Oh! Men with mothers and wives!
Is it not their souls you should hold so near,
Not the screens that rule your lives!

Swipe! Scroll! Swipe!
Through curated, filtered scenes,
Where happiness is always ripe,
And life's a highlight reel, it seems.
Compare, contrast, despair,
In this digital, mirrored hall,
Is it joy that you find there?
Or the seeds of a bitter fall?

Tap, tap, tap,
In the silence of the room,
While the real world takes a nap,
And relationships wilt in the gloom.
Love letters left unread,
Conversations left unsaid,
For the phone calls, a siren's spread,
A connection to nowhere, instead.

Oh! But to breathe the air,
And to feel the sun's warm kiss,
To escape this digital snare,
And find true human bliss.
But the phone's grip is tight,
A constant, hungry need,
In the darkness of the night,
On its endless feed, they feed.

Swipe! Scroll! Swipe!
From dawn 'til day is done,
A life lived in a digital stripe,
A race that can't be won.
Tap, tap, tap,
Though their spirit starts to fray,
They're caught in the phone's cruel trap,
And they can't look away, can't look away.

With fingers weary and worn,
And eyes heavy and red,
A person sits, all alone, forlorn,
A phone held tight in bed.
Swipe! Scroll! Swipe!
In a world that's lost its way,
They've traded their soul, swipe by swipe,
For a screen's cold, empty sway.