Limeritech!

Paraphrased from the QDB:

A programmer started to cuss
Because getting to sleep was a fuss
As he lay there in his bed
Looping around in his head
was: while (!asleep) sheep++;

Ha ha, indeed :)

An Index Expurgatorius

(Found here, en route to scrambling to a submission on Managerial Ethics, which has previously also been proved productive..)

The man who marks or leaves with pages bent
The volume that some trusting friend has lent,
Or keeps it over long, or scruples not
To let its due returning be forgot;
The man who guards his books with miser's care,
And does not joy to lend them, and to share;
The man whose shelves are dust begrimed and few,
Who reads when he has nothing else to do;
The man who raves of classic writers, but
Is found to keep them with their leaves uncut;
The man who looks on literature as news,
And gets his culture from the book reviews;
Who loves not fair, clean type, and margins wide --
Or loves these better than the thought inside;
Who buys his books to decorate the shelf,
Or gives a book he has not read himself;
Who reads from priggish motives, or for looks,
Or any reason save the love of books.
Great Lord, who judgest sins of all degrees,
Is there no little private hell for these?

Spoems

As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
Scrawny wolves, and you,
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Dim, and die tonight?
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Onto my frozen fingers.
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Appendices
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Everywhere, utterly.
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
(Our fortitude grows dim in
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,

VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Snow haze gleams like sand.
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
And I would like
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking

The paths of childhood.
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Glimmering of light:
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
From there. Toward . . .
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Before those virile women!
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
And I would like
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Covering the land—
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Glimmering of light:
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they

All three bits of verse via spam asking me to download Adobe Photoshop CS3 for only $89.

Heh.

An Ode to Sameer

If Sameer had gone to school,
He wouldn't be such a fool.
His head would have some brains,
Instead of cotton wool.

Sameer likes weird games,
I feel like calling him names.
But what to do? I'm jealous,
'Cos he attracts all the dames.

Sameer deserves a KITA,
'Cos he's such a major PITA,
He's also such a sissyhead,
He's forever complaining to Geeta.

These songs about the freako,
Are written during Eco.
It's time to stop this silliness,
Says the display on my Seiko.

[Largely sung to the tune of Whose Line Is It Anyway's "Irish Drinking Song"]

Macroeconomic scribblings

Money is a matter of functions four,
A medium, a measure, a standard and a store.
But I don't really care, I just keep wanting more,
And that's why, dear readers, I didn't vote for Al Gore.

I now regret it, such terrible luck,
Having supported that goddamn Texan shcmuck.
But what can we do now, with Dubya we're stuck,
Impeachment? Nah, no intern did he fuck...

Wait for the next elections, we thought.
Let us remove this unsightly blot.
But personality and balls, Kerry had not,
A better kinda asshole, but not by a lot.

(This was written down in a class on macroeconomic theory. Hazzah.)

With apologies to Ol' Bill

Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to an XLRI student? Then happy low, lie down and free!
Uneasy lies the head that strives for an MBA degree.