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} Poor mortal supplicant, thou art
} Afflicted with a curse,
} For every time thou sendeth mail,
} Thou goest from bad to verse.
}
} A terminal disease afflicts
} And that is sure a crime,
} Your poetry will never scan,
} (It sure as hell don't rhyme!)
}
} It seems to me, poor mortal soul,
} You are indeed in strife!
} Abandon ye your nerdish ways,
} And get yourself a life!
}
} This mortal coil has more to it
} Than rec... and comp... and alt...
} Those newsgroups have gazumped your mind
} (But that is not _my_ fault.)
}
} I sometimes sit here on my throne,
} (With Lisa on my lap),
} And listen to all sorts of things,
} No better than this crap.
}
} Peculiar obsessions all,
} I shat so much I laughed,
} Bitch all you like, you silly nerd,
} *I'M* telling you... YOU'RE DAFT.
}
} But now I see the problem!
} What it appears to be
} Is that your crappy poetry
} Has sprung from your PC!
}
} What software madness can this be?
} Some nasty, buggy, TROFF?
} Word Perfect gone into a loop?
} Away with ye, &^%$ off!
}
} Or stay there in that lonely room,
} That wretched little hovel,
} And mind that when me next you call,
} You don't forget to grovel!
}
} (On second thoughts, I ought to say,
} I rather kind of like you,
} I would prefer, however,
} That you question me in haiku!)
}
} You owe the Oracle some decent poetry...
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