Sputnik

I'm getting a message
from your satelite.
It's telling me:
go to the store,
buy us some rye bread;
don't forget eggs and cream.

Now I can't seem to discern
why I can't learn
to pay any attention
to your signal.

Electronic screaming:
travelling through space
all the way
down to this world,
collides with my thick head
and bounces back to the jet stream.