Well, it's finally happened. I've completely run out of ideas for this column. So I asked a few poet friends to supply me with material:

William Shakespeare

My Web, my site hath nothing that's from Sun;
No Java will you find within its code;
No ActiveX or plug-ins to be run;
No cookies--with ice cream or a la mode.

I have seen JPEGs appear, big and small,
But no such pictures find ye on my site;
Of colors, there be hardly none at all,
The pages that I make be black on white.

There's music that I love, both soft and loud,
But quiet is my site-no horns, no bell;
No discounts fine to bring the swelling crowd;
Indeed, 'tis true, I have but naught to sell.

And yet, by heav'n, my site is not so vex'd,
It downloads quick, with fast and pleasant text.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a gig, half a gig,
Half a gig all spent,
Into the upgrade from hell
Went the department.
All the new features now!
All that they have sent.
Into the upgrade from hell
Went the department.

Make it now four-point-oh-
New version--Make it so!
Forget that the bug control
Has been all absent.
Theirs not to flush the cache,
Theirs not the hard drive thrash,
Theirs but to do and crash:
Into the upgrade from hell
Went the department.

Bugs to the right of them,
Bugs to the left of them,
Bugs all in front of them
Breeding for torment;
Upgrade for all to see!
Upgrade so you'll be free!
Who cares 'bout your registry?
Into the upgrade from hell
Went the department.

You've upgraded now, and so
You've got version four-point-oh,
Your system's five times as slow;
No! We won't repent.
If four-point-oh doesn't thrive,
To better things we will strive,
We're working on number five.
Once more to the upgrade from hell
Goes to department.

Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, eyes too bleary,
Over messages most eerie, errors that would not compute-
Windows, and I now must sum up, would not run or even come up,
Not a desktop would it drum up; operating system mute.
Cryptic message on my screen and in all else Windows was mute.
OS sick and most acute.

My thoughts as deep and dark as red wine; it was three days passed my deadline
And I'd soon be in a breadline if my work did not bear fruit.
As Bill Gates I thought of stalking, suddenly there came a squawking,
Like no one who'd heard of talking, walking, but not in pursuit,
Walked into my very office, just like one not in pursuit,
Small, and round, and rather cute.

No, it was not someone mighty, or even, as I'd hoped, from IT,
Just a Chicken, short of height, he walked into my office, mute.
Studying each ruffled feather, as a joke, I asked if whether
He and I could work together to make Windows execute.
It was a joke, but Windows, I did greatly need to execute.
Quoth the Chicken "Never boot."

Hearing that my soul did sicken, but to listen to a chicken
Would imply a skull that's thickened to a width most absolute.
Turning back onto my work, I hoped to prove like Captain Kirk, I
Make all right and with a smirk, I prove this Chicken just a toot.
Birds know nothing of computers; what he says is just a toot.
Quoth the Chicken "Never boot."

And the Chicken, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the middle of my office, pecking holes in my good suit.
And I call contagious curses at the bird, and what is worse is
I am writing silly verses. Curses on that feathered hoot!
Curse on Microsoft and Intel and that stupid feathered hoot.
And my system? Never boot!

Ernest Lawrence Thayer

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville Corp. that day;
The office suite was sour and Paint's colors all were gray.
So when Cooney needed tech support, and got that old dial tone,
He hoped that mighty Casey would be answering the phone.

But first came a recording, and he knew just what to do;
He listened to that little voice, and then pressed number Two.
That little voice returned again, and told him of his fate,
But Cooney knew just what to do and so he pressed the Eight.

A Four and Six he next did press, and then he keyed the Seven,
And wondered what key he would press to dial number Eleven.
Eighteen numbers he did press, or so that I've been told,
Until he got to tech support, and so was placed on hold.

For twenty minutes Cooney sat, a-playin' with his thumb,
And then another twenty where his mood had turned to glum.
But then his spirit lifted; he let out a joyous groan,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was now picking up the phone.

There was ease in Casey's manner as his chair leaned back some more,
There was pride in Casey's bearing as he got up from the floor;
Then he put the phone up to his ear, and stated with great ease:
"Hello. I am here to help you. What's your problem, if you please?"

So Cooney filled him in on all the problems with the suite,
And how the printer printed all the pages on one sheet.
He told him of lost protocols in network interface.
And Casey said "Can't help you. That's not in the knowledgebase."

Next Cooney spoke of problems where his modem wouldn't ping,
And Casey said "A modem? Is that some kind of thing?
"The knowledgebase is empty!" Casey said as if a snort.
"I'm sorry I can't help now but I must call tech support."

Oh, somewhere in this favored land a network's humming right,
And somewhere folks are downloading and getting every byte;
And somewhere there is tech support that helps with ROM and RAM,
But there is no help for Mudville; mighty Casey is a sham.

Contributing Editor Lincoln Spector writes about the absurdities of computing life.