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 once was a woman from France,
Who did an unusual dance.
She'd roll in the grass,
And lick her own ass,
Her sex would put men in a trance.

A stingy old man of St. Giles 
               Saved his shillings with miserly wiles. 
                    Just to save a few bob 
                    He would wipe with a cob, 
               And that way he got piles and piles! 

A sweet young strip-dancer named Jane
Wore five inches of thin cellophane.
When asked why she wore it,
She said, "I abhor it,
But my cunt juice would spatter like rain."

   THE CREATION OF A VAGINA
   Seven wise men with knowledge so fine
   Created a pussy to their design.
   First was a butcher, smart with wit,
   Using a knife, he gave it a slit.
   Second was a carpenter, strong and bold,
   With a hammer and chisel, he gave it a hole.
   Third was a tailor, tall and thin,
   By using red velvet, he lined it within.
   Fourth was a hunter, short and stout,
   With a piece of fox fur, he lined it without.
   Fifth was a fisherman, nasty as hell,
   He threw in a fish and gave it a smell.
   Sixth was a preacher whose name was McGee,
   He touched it and blessed it and said it could pee.
   Last came a sailor, a dirty little runt,
   He sucked it and fucked it and called it a cunt