Lewinsky and Clinton have shown
   what Kaczynski must surely have known:
   that an intern is better
   than a bomb in a letter
   given the choice to be blown.


  

               There was a young man from Aberdeen 
               Who invented a jerking machine. 
                    On the twenty-fifth stroke 
                    The goddamn thing broke 
               And beat his balls into a cream. 
                                                  

                            Abort, Retry, Ignore
     
   
Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bedsheets,
Still I sat there, doing spreadsheets:
Having reached the bottom line,
I took a floppy from the drawer.
Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command
But got instead a reprimand: it read "Abort, Retry, Ignore."

Was this some occult illusion? Some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices Solomon himself had never faced before.
Carefully, I weighed my options.
These three seemed to be the top ones.
Clearly, I must now adopt one:
Choose Abort, Retry, Ignore.

With my fingers pale and trembling,
Slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored,
Praying for some guarantee
Finally I pressed a key -
But on the screen what did I see?
Again: "Abort, Retry, Ignore."

I tried to catch the chips off-guard -
I pressed again, but twice as hard.
Luck was just not in the cards.
I saw what I had seen before.
Now I typed in desperation
Trying random combinations
Still there came the incantation:
Choose: Abort, Retry, Ignore.

There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted
Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw an awful sight:
A bold and blinding flash of light -
A lightning bolt had cut the night and shook me to my very core.
I saw the screen collapse and die
"Oh no - my database," I cried.
I thought I heard a voice reply,
"You'll see your data Nevermore."

To this day I do not know
The place to which lost data goes.
I bet it goes to heaven where the angels have it stored.
But, as for productivity, well
I fear that it goes straight to hell.
And that's the tale I have to tell.
Your choice: Abort, Retry, Ignore.
  

There was a young man in Hong Kong 
               Who grew seven fathoms of prong. 
                    It looked, when erect, 
                    About as you'd expect--- 
               When coiled it did not seem so long. 

                    A Chinaman hailing from Woozee
                            
                    Once laid an American floozie.
                            "How different," he cried,
                            As he slid it inside,
                            
                    "To diddle a vertical coozie!"