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A Visit from a Silicon Impostor

A few weeks before Christmas,
One Nine Ninety-Four,
The whole world was stirring with outrage galore.
The shockings related to gross lack of care
Whether all had the margin of error to spare.

Small companies nestled all snug in their pride
That their vision of equal respect had applied.
And papa with the trackball (I, saving my wrist)
Had just settled our brains for a game-maybe Myst.
When out on the net, in the press, such a clatter
And chatter arose! Here is what was the matter:
Away to the window I flew to find out
What Tom Nicely's discovery was all about.

Those ads on the TV and ads in the mags
Gave the luster of payday to all of their brags
When what to my wondering eye it appears
That the floating point error "news" is in arrears.
The error is bad. The arrears part is sick,
So I knew in a moment it wasn't Saint Nick!

More rapid than eagles, supporters they came.
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
On PB, on Gateway, on Tandy and Acer,
On Compaq, on Cupid, on Dell and Fujitsu
To the top of the boards to the top of The Wall
Now stash away, stash away, stash away all!
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly
When they meet with an obstacle reach to the sky

So up to the analysts his coarsers flew.
It remains to be seen what they further will do.
And then in a moment I heard in the snow
The prancing and pawing of each CEO.
As I drew in my head and was turning around
Down the chimney this chipmaker came with a bound.
He was dressed all in gold from his head to his foot,
Reputation all tarnished with greedy pursuit
He had a broad grin like an open ellipse
And a confident stance poised to shoot from both hips

With a wink of an eye and a shake of his head
He tried vainly to say I had nothing to dread.
With arrogant zeal he went straight to his work
To fill the stock holdings, then rose, (what a jerk)
And laying a finger aside of his nose
As much as to say, "You don't count." Then he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the cone of a missile.
But I'm here to exclaim, if Intel is inside,
Happy Christmas to you,
Just don't try to divide!

© Pat McCornack

 

   
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