My swan is, I mourn, dead and ugly.
Gone. Eaten by the angry, traitorous
Shit that lives and lives not, for
The iMac is alive and not alive,
Canny and mechanical, and,
Finally, an abrasive on my tender cock.
Fuck you, gentle iMac, you kicker
Of slight balls, thou eggbeater of
My goddamn fucking nuts. You siezed
Up like a chilly epileptic when I asked
For nothing but internet access,
An excerpt from skot’s latest masterpiece of verse.