Debuggers

Two dimensional tech support
I switch to desktop view
And open Windows to your heart
To see what else is new

The virus checker cannot cope
With all you put me through
Downloading tripe ’til systems choke
What’s an Admin to do?

But lock it down as best she might
Until she finds the cure
RegEditing through half the night
SAD, cmd-prompt and sore

Perhaps one day will come a tool
That knocks them all for six
But while we wait to see that jewel
I’ll try my usual tricks…

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Generation Gap Year

Extended adolescence is
Two dudes on a skate date at six
Discussing their need
For some quality weed
While comparing the length of their tricks

With their tracksuits and caps off The Now Show
And their t-shirts ironic, profound
They both chat and rejoice
In the sound of their voice
As home counties vowels litter the ground

Not quite yet with one foot on the ladder
Are these kool kats establishment-bound
With their pals in the pub
Serving plates of posh grub
Mockney rules ’til the tools owe a round

Then they’re back pulling pints of an evening
While the board sits at home in the lounge
Pinching pennies for blow
Giving housemates a show
As the park’s still the best game in town

From my viewpoint as elderly spinster
I ignore what excites at their age
Though it seems such good fun
I’ve a hunch they’ve broken
Every bone from their knees to ribcage

25 Glorious Years

I was only seven when
The world wide web was born
Helped nurture it as it did me
Though sometimes both were torn

Now controversy jostles next
To videos of pets
And governments are waking up
To cybercrime and sexts

They talk of regulation, laws
Protecting those who surf
Such optimism gives me pause
For who can claim this turf?

How would you try to regulate
Where speech is truly free
Outside the firewalls of nations’
Charted territory

They want to sell, or tax, exploit
The assets they don’t own
Regain the power to deny
Dissent has reached them, grown

A massive haul, this data mine
To use for good and ill
Through monetising yours and mine
They hope to profit.  Still

While youth retains advantage here
Technology will grow
Though moralists may phish to smear
They will not stop the show

The Trade

Where is this freedom
Promised me
When first they told me
Work makes free?

I look around
And know I’m lost –
What’s free I buy
At such a cost

No youth, enjoyment
Holidays
Solid employment
Only pays

In minted coin
As all are robbed
Of our free time
We’re bobbed and jobbed

And pensioned off
Freely to freeze
As Winter brings us
To our knees

A lifetime spent
In servitude
While taking care
To save on food

Essentials only
Frugal thrift
Is hardly free
To those who drift

Through twilit streets
And shopping malls
In suits and boots
Or overalls

No longer knowing
Why they strive
For Freedom finds
Few left alive

The January Blues

I am finding my diet depressing
(A first world complaint, you’ll agree)
For in spite of the shakes, and the carbs, and the breaks
I am moody, sore, tired and hungry

Yet they tell me it’s worth it to diet
It shows character, willpower, poise
And with less spent on meat, you invest what you’d eat
In a dress to attract all the boys

So I guess I should stick with the program
For another few days at the least
If I make it that far, on an energy bar
You could use to scrub pots of their grease

I’m not sure I buy in to the concept
That the thin are more healthy and glam
And a girl in her prime must waste quite so much time
On starvation to bag her a man

No, I’m doing this thing to feel healthy
So the stairs are not quite such a chore
If eschewing all cheese, last year’s jeans pass my knees
It’s a bonus worth nothing at all

The Half Life of Romantium

Take a fragile shell of base metal
Iron, or lead will do nicely for a first attempt
Then find somewhere to keep it
While the experiment progresses
Prop it against a shady frame
Darkened doorways work well, then
Seal it with the finest salt water
Washing repeatedly until all planes
Have been carefully soaked in brine
Set it aside to drip-dry on a doormat
Paying careful attention to placement
More progress is made in the hours
When darkness covers the sun’s curve
Applying topical heat at intervals
Until the surface shines with salt specks
Carve your initials into this skin
Making the cuts deep, clean, even
You should still be able to see them
A clear inscription In fifty years or so,
Once things have cooled to room temperature