Linux Songs Poems

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
        Done by!  Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: "Pray, what is youn?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,
As should be a-lyin in graveyard.
        Caveyard!  Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard."

"My lad," said Troll, "this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
        Tinbone!  Thinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll
For he don't need his shinbone."

Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
        Rover!  Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bnone over!"
                -- J. R. R. Tolkien

Try not.
Do.
Or do not.
There is no try.

"Twas bergen and the eirie road
Did mahwah into patterson:              "Beware the Hopatcong, my son!
All jersey were the ocean groves,       The teeth that bite, the nails
And the red bank bayonne.                       that claw!
                                        Beware the bound brook bird, and shun
He took his belmar blade in hand:       The kearney communipaw."
Long time the folsom foe he sought
Till rested he by a bayway tree         And, as in nutley thought he stood,
And stood a while in thought.           The Hopatcong with eyes of flame,
                                        Came whippany through the englewood,
One, two, one, two, and through         And garfield as it came.
        and through
The belmar blade went hackensack!       "And hast thou slain the Hopatcong?
He left it dead and with it's head      Come to my arms, my perth amboy!
He went weehawken back.                 Hohokus day!  Soho!  Rahway!"
                                        He caldwell in his joy.
Did mahwah into patterson:
All jersey were the ocean groves,
And the red bank bayonne.
                -- Paul Kieffer

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.        "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
All mimsy were the borogroves           The jaws that bite, the claws
And the mome raths outgrabe.                    that catch!
                                        Beware the Jubjub bird,
He took his vorpal sword in hand        And shun the frumious Bandersnatch!"
Long time the manxome foe he sought.
So rested he by the tumtum tree         And as in uffish thought he stood
And stood awhile in thought.            The Jabberwock, with eyes aflame
                                        Came whuffling through the tulgey wood
One! Two! One! Two!  And through and    And burbled as it came!
        through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.    "Hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
He left it dead, and took its head,     Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
And went galumphing back.               Oh frabjous day!  Calooh!  Callay!"
                                        He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome raths outgrabe.
                -- Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky"

'Twas bullig, and the slithy brokers
Did buy and gamble in the craze         "Beware the Jabberstock, my son!
All rosy were the Dow Jones stokers     The cost that bites, the worth
By market's wrath unphased.                     that falls!
                                        Beware the Econ'mist's word, and shun
He took his forecast sword in hand:     The spurious Street o' Walls!"
Long time the Boesk'some foe he sought -
Sake's liquidity, so d'vested he,       And as in bearish thought he stood
And stood awhile in thought.            The Jabberstock, with clothes of tweed,
                                        Came waffling with the truth too good,
Chip Black! Chip Blue! And through      And yuppied great with greed!
        and through
The forecast blade went snicker-snack!  "And hast thou slain the Jabberstock?
It bit the dirt, and with its shirt,    Come to my firm,  V.P.ish  boy!
He went rebounding back.                O big bucks day! Moolah! Good Play!"
                                        He bought him a Mercedes Toy.
'Twas panic, and the slithy brokers
Did gyre and tumble in the Crash
All flimsy were the Dow Jones stokers
And mammon's wrath them bash!
                -- Peter Stucki, "Jabberstocky"

Twas FORTRAN as the doloop goes
        Did logzerneg the ifthen block
All kludgy were the function flows
        And subroutines adhoc.

Beware the runtime-bug my friend
        squrooneg, the false goto
Beware the infiniteloop
        And shun the inprectoo.
                -- "OUTCONERR," to the scheme of "Jabberwocky"

'Twas midnight on the ocean,            Her children all were orphans,
Not a streetcar was in sight,           Except one a tiny tot,
So I stepped into a cigar store         Who had a home across the way
To ask them for a light.                Above a vacant lot.

The man behind the counter              As I gazed through the oaken door
Was a woman, old and gray,              A whale went drifting by,
Who used to peddle doughnuts            Its six legs hanging in the air,
On the road to Mandalay.                So I kissed her goodbye.

She said "Good morning, stranger",      This story has a morale
Her eyes were dry with tears,           As you can plainly see,
As she put her head between her feet    Don't mix your gin with whiskey
And stood that way for years.           On the deep and dark blue sea.
                -- Midnight On The Ocean

'Twas midnight, and the UNIX hacks
Did gyre and gimble in their cave
All mimsy was the CS-VAX
And Cory raths outgrabe.

"Beware the software rot, my son!
The faults that bite, the jobs that thrash!
Beware the broken pipe, and shun
The frumious system crash!"

'Twas the night before crisis, and all through the house,
        Not a program was working not even a browse.
The programmers were wrung out too mindless to care,
        Knowing chances of cutover hadn't a prayer.
The users were nestled all snug in their beds,
        While visions of inquiries danced in their heads.
When out in the lobby there arose such a clatter,
        I sprang from my tube to see what was the matter.
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
        But a Super Programmer, oblivious to fear.
More rapid than eagles, his programs they came,
        And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;
On Update!  On Add!  On Inquiry!  On Delete!
        On Batch Jobs!  On Closing!  On Functions Complete!
His eyes were glazed over, his fingers were lean,
        From Weekends and nights in front of a screen.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
        Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread...
                -- "Twas the Night before Crisis"

'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period
   preceding the annual Yuletide celebration, And
   throughout our place of residence,
Kinetic activity was not in evidence among the
   possessors of this potential, including that
   species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus.
Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward
   edge of the woodburning caloric apparatus,
Pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure regarding an
   imminent visitation from an eccentric
   philanthropist among whose folkloric appelations
   is the honorific title of St. Nicklaus ...