Today's poems [3.10.17]
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There was an old fellow from Roop
Who'd lost all control of his poop.
One evening at supper
His wife said, "Now, Tupper,
Stop making that noise with your soup!"
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 misplacÚd 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 blessÚd 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!  Nymph, in thy reminders
Be all my posts remembered.
A studious professor named Nestor
Bet a whore all his books he could best her.
But she drained out his balls
And skipped up the walls,
Beseeching poor Nestor to rest her.
A crafty young bard named McMahon
Whose poetry never would scan,
Once said with a pause,
"It's prob'ly because
I am always attempting to insert as many extra
syllables into the ultimate line as I
A girl on a southern plantation
Was the product of insemination.
So each fathers' day
She would send a bouquet
To a syringe in a far away nation.
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