My wife Myrtle's womb has a habit Of expanding whenever I stab it. What's more, my wife Myrtle Is so wonderously fertile, That she's giving me kids like a rabbit.
There was a young woman of Croft Who played with herself in a loft. Having reasoned that candles Could never cause scandals, Besides which they did not go soft.
There was an old hag named Le Sueur Who just was an out-and-out whore. Between her big tits You could come for two bits, And she'd fuck in any old sewer.
There was a young woman named Dottie Who said as she sat on the potty, "It isn't polite To do this in sight, But then, who am I to be snotty?"
Abort, Retry, Ignore Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary, System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor, Longing for the warmth of bedsheets, Still I sat there, doing spreadsheets: Having reached the bottom line, I took a floppy from the drawer. Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command But got instead a reprimand: it read "Abort, Retry, Ignore." Was this some occult illusion? Some maniacal intrusion? These were choices Solomon himself had never faced before. Carefully, I weighed my options. These three seemed to be the top ones. Clearly, I must now adopt one: Choose Abort, Retry, Ignore. With my fingers pale and trembling, Slowly toward the keyboard bending, Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored, Praying for some guarantee Finally I pressed a key - But on the screen what did I see? Again: "Abort, Retry, Ignore." I tried to catch the chips off-guard - I pressed again, but twice as hard. Luck was just not in the cards. I saw what I had seen before. Now I typed in desperation Trying random combinations Still there came the incantation: Choose: Abort, Retry, Ignore. There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor. And then I saw an awful sight: A bold and blinding flash of light - A lightning bolt had cut the night and shook me to my very core. I saw the screen collapse and die "Oh no - my database," I cried. I thought I heard a voice reply, "You'll see your data Nevermore." To this day I do not know The place to which lost data goes. I bet it goes to heaven where the angels have it stored. But, as for productivity, well I fear that it goes straight to hell. And that's the tale I have to tell. Your choice: Abort, Retry, Ignore.
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