A very crappy poo-em...

...cuz I was in a shitty mood.

Ladies and gents, now I'll tell you a tale
It will lighten your burden, if you observe the details
So hear of my visit - please pay some attention -
to the "Toilet Manufacturers' Annual Convention"

The shiny yellow walls looked almost divine
But the N and the U had (whoops) dropped off the sign
The exhibition hall was empty at first
When suddenly, attendees flushed in with a burst
The Guest of Honour was most certainly Brit
For when they served coffee, he threatened to quit
"I shan't drink this filth!", disgustedly said he,
"When all I asked for, was a pot-o'-tea!"

So they brought some tea quickly, and he was appeased
And the organizers, they heaved an air of release
"After all, we're family, like shishtersh and brothersh,
let'sh shit and enjoy!" slurred one to the other.
The evening began, dinner bowls passed around
I must say the flavour of the beans was profound
They were baked in France (it was the organizers' idea)
by the world renowned chef (from Loordes) called D'Arhea.

"Brethren, and Sistern" the speaker began,
(The organizers here noted this was according to plan)
"My name is Peter, friends call me Mr. P
And being among you, just fills me with glee.
In fact I'm so full, I must use the Room -
So just a quick pit stop, then we shall resume."
The speaker thus zipped off the stage in haste
Leaving the organizers slightly pale-faced.

You see, neither was good with the oral powers
One shlurred, the other confused doublews and arse.
"My fellow shitizens, we'll continue tonight
But let'sh have our raffle while P'sh out of shite
Now it'sh ten quid for the firsht one and five for more"
Said the first organizer, giving the second one the floor.
"Rhen you're done rith the tickets, re rill rork the machine
and if your number turns up, then rell, you rin!"

"Your prize", said he to the lady who'd won
"is a solid lead seat, in strength: number one!
Number two in looks, but in nothing is it third
It's so rery robust, that re call it the Sturd!"
While the winner was exclaiming how this was so great,
That her husband would never manage lifting that weight,
Mr P came back to join the crowd
Surrounding him, was a gaseous cloud

Just when it all had been going so super
Mr P, oh, that party pooper
Banished the convention, with what must
be only described as a guttural gust
What can I say? The crap hit the fan!
Men and women and animals, they ran
So quickly did the milling crowd depart
That P's stench could be called a piss-off-fart

Every year since then, in the month of July
To relieve that moment, I still sometimes try
The Annual Convention still goes on
Alhough Peter's member-ship's been withdrawn
The organizers occasionally write to me
"You're our next 'Gust of Honour' if you chose to be!"
Their profits are up, in spite of their oops
Well, the bottom line is that - everybody poops.

Starchild

"Thus is foretold," said the prophecies of old
"When the Moon will be blood upon the midnight sky,
Fire and flood will equally hold sway,
Rivers will dry, mountains give way,
The Time of the Starchild, then, will be nigh."

      The planets aligned, this was the Sign.
      Priests stared at the firmament and frowned,
      While laymen, scared witless, pointed above
      (Some said they saw a heavenly dove)
      And a solitary star dropped to the ground!

So they traveled on foot a hundred paces,

They traveled from a thousand faraway places.

They came wearing rags covered in mould,

They came bearing gifts of glittering gold.

They silently, reverently whispered his name,

They hoisted their banners and coveted his fame.

They prayed with folded hand and asked for salvation,

They spat on the ground and called on his damnation.

The King called court, nobles pledged their support
"Power be to Thou," said the chief vizier,
"Let us avow (since this 'starchild' is new)
We shall nip him in the bud, while his followers are few!"
Agreed the assembly "Hear! Hear!"

      Thus the elites took to the streets
      And poisoned every ear that lent to their lies
      Soothsayers disappeared into the night
      Murder and riot and pillage and blight
      filled the cities with tears and cries

They thought of the signs and trembled in fear,

They heard the rumours and in mocking, they jeered.

They locked their gates and boarded their doors,

They didn't even care, went on with their chores.

They cynically noted that something was odd,

They loved him and hailed him as prophet and God!

But none of them noticed it was already dawn

When lo, and behold! The Starchild was born!!

The Pattern

Anguished from tackling with a bug for a few hours, a novice had been idly browsing when he saw the reflection of a shadow flit by on the monitor. It was the Master Programmer coming in, late as usual.

The novice turned around and asked: "I come in early every day and code many more hours than you do, whereas you come late and attend unimportant social events. How do you manage to get any work done?"

The Master Programmer drew a flowchart on a screen. It was two boxes, each with an arrow pointing into a funnel, with another rectangle pointed out from under the funnel. Then, he drew a much larger third box, again pointing into the funnel, but as quickly as he had drawn it, he erased it off the board.

"Behold, the Pattern! This first square," pointed out the Master Programmer, "represents all my daily chores. The second one is my work. They are the inputs."

"The funnel is my capacity, and the rectangle is the useful code that I produce. It is the output. As long as there is balance, the Pattern surrounds me and my being. Being a programmer, I can easily manipulate both the inputs and outputs to my wishes."

The novice was impressed by the ease in which the Master Programmer had explained to him the Pattern. But he was curious for more, "Pray, Master, but why did you erase the third box?"

The Master Programmer looked stoically at the novice. "That represents Emotion. Emotion lives outside the Pattern and occupies infinite space. If you channel it into the funnel, it will obstruct the output."

"But why can you not manipulate this box, just as the other inputs?" inquired the novice.

"Because Emotion can not be programmed." said the Master Programmer, and the novice was enlightened.