Twas The Night Before Deadline,
A Writer’s Tale of Woe
‘Twas the night before deadline, finally quiet in the house.
I had just settled down with my Microsoft mouse.
A shiny pink disk I popped into its slot.
In the hopes that a few more words I could jot.
Then what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a paragraph gone and a line quite unclear.
The words I had written were all boxes and squares.
And weird squiggley marks looking oddly like hairs.
I sat there transfixed knowing not what to do.
My hands became clammy, my mind turned to goo.
Should I call Tech Support or go it alone?
Do I have fourteen days to hold on the phone?
“Be bold,” said my muse, “it’s not courage you lack,
But merely a friend at Radio Shack.”
So I clicked all the buttons—the ones that made sense.
Hoping to feel just a little less dense.
But all I accomplished (besides this great poem)
Was a bad case of Repetitive Movement Syndroem.
And I read on my screen as it blinked out of sight,
“Your file is deleted, now have a good night!”