by Greg Grant
Alas, my mistress looketh not at me-
Instead, she harkens to my IBM.
The apple of my eye, with luscious stem,
Makes all attempts to woo and flatter me
To get to my machine. I now can see
My floppy disks mean more to her than all
My loving glances could. O wretched fall
When we romanced beneath the chestnut tree.
If we could just return to what we had
Before my software came between desire
And her soft wear. Alas, I fear her heart
Is terminally lost and we must part
Unless she can put out her output fire
And forswear access to this crazy fad.
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