} Is this an in-joke I see before me,
} The sarcasm toward my fellows? Come, let me analyse thee,
} I get thee not, and yet I see thee still,
} Art thou not, quaint quip, humorous
} To audacity as to confusion? Or art thou but
} An in-joke of the mind, a false creation,
} Proceeding from the paranoia-obsessed brain?
} I get thee yet, in form as grave
} As this which now I impart.
} Thou segregate'st me the way that I was posting,
} And such a sig I was to use.
} Mine quotes are made the fools o' the other posters,
} Or else worth all of them. I see the still,
} And on thy tail and beyond, paragraphs of words,
} Which were not words before. There's no such thing:
} It is the complex business which resides
} Thus to mine quotes. Now o'er the one hundred messages
} Usenet seems dead, and silent posters lie still
} The posters'd sleep; trolls celebrate
} AOL Spammer's offerings; and promis'd Money,
} Alarum'd by the silence, the newbie,
} Whose howl's his question, thus with his HTML message,
} With Microsoft's ravishing fonts, towards his answer
} Moves like a funeral. Thou sure and firm-set regulars,
} Hear not my crossposts, which groups they encounter, for fear
} Thy very posts prate of my intentions,
} And take the present perplexion from the outside,
} Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, I wait;
} Words to the heat of regulars too cold silence gives.
} <"You've got mail!">
} I go, and it is done; the mail invites me.
} Hear it not, flamer, for it is an Oracularity
} That summons thee to greatness, or to the killfile.
} You owe the Oracle lessons in how to get away with such unlikely
} similes such as "Show'd like a rebel's whore" and still be regarded as
} a literary genius.