THE MORNING SONG....FOR NON-MORNING PEOPLE

I woke early one morning,
The earth lay cool and still.
When suddenly a tiny bird,
Perch on my window sill.

He sang a song so lovely,
So carefree and so gay.
That slowly all my troubles,
Began to slip away.

He sang of far off places,
Of laughter and of fun.
It seemed his very trilling,
Brought up the morning sun.

I stirred beneath the covers,
Crept slowly out of bed.
And gently lowered the window,
And crushed his fucking head.

Robert

To quote, or not to quote;
That is the question.
Whether 'tis cluefuller on the Net to re-post
The tos and fros of diverse opinions,
Or to take arms against such attributions,
And, by excision, end them. 
                             To trim, to snip:
No more, and by a snip to say we end
The widows and the thousand orphaned words
That posts are heir to,  'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
                        To trim, to snip.
To snip, perchance too much. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that joyous chop the sense we lose
When we have taken out the fluff and dross
Must give us pause. 
                     There's the factor
That makes calamity of so long threads.
For who would bear the tos and fros of chat,
Th' cascader's screed, the geek's anality,
The pain of misplacéd tags, the reeking trolls,
The cliquiness of in-jokes, and the flames
That studied satire draws from clueless fools,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a mere bobbit?
                     Who would cudgel brains
To write a piece, witty and thoughtful too,
But that the hope of making people laugh,
That blesséd gift of humour from whose touch
No traveller is safe, spurs on the soul,
And makes us rather bear those ills we read
Than carve them up,and mayhap lose the joke?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And Usenet posters of great sense and content
In this confusion quote more than they should,
And lose the name of Clueful.
                               Read you, now,
The fair Emilia! [1]  Nymph, in thy reminders
Be all my posts remembered.

There was a Serbian romp
Who asked NATO to make her a bomb.
    But she caused no explosion
    And the smell of corrosion
Made Albanians flee to Hong Kong.

My face in the mirror
                isn't wrinkled or drawn;
        My house isn't dirty,
                the cobwebs are gone.
        My garden looks lovely,
                and so does my lawn;
        I think I might never
                put my glasses back on!

There was a young lady of Dover
Whose passion was such that it drove her
        To cry, when you came,
        "Oh dear!  What a shame!
Well, now we shall have to start over."