When a party writes a poem and he puts it on the net,
He writes for love not money, and he takes what he can get.
He writes to bring you pleasure, that's the nature of the game.
He writes for recognition and he's sure to sign his name.
I wrote the poem in question, but this will make you laugh,
the version circulating, is my work cut in half!
Someone didn't like it, I guess that's a cinch.
It passed around the internet, until it met the Grinch.
I've never met the miscreant who edited my work,
but when I close my eyes and try, I can see the jerk!
The eyes are tiny pixels, close together you will find,
they're only separated by his narrow little mind.
His fingernails are dirty as he types on sticky keys,
He lurks around the network and takes whatever he sees.
He edits, chops, appropriates, and strips away my name,
A scoundrel on the internet, a lowdown dirty shame.
I'd like to find this filcher, so I'll offer this reward.
I'll give away my Mac SE, throw in the power cord.
If you will help me track him down and hang his internets
This information highwayman deserves what'er he gets.
And if we fail to find him, I'll hit him with a curse.
His hard disk will start spinning counter-clockwise in reverse.
His screen will start to flicker, and his mouse will chase a hearse.
I'll teach that hacking larcenist to tamper with my verse!
If you want to see my uncut work, take heart, it's still alive
It's in NetGuide, page eighty-six, for March of ninty-five.
|
Gene_Ziegler@Cornell.edu .