O iMac! Flawless iMac!
How your graces have
Been trumpeted while I
Have owned you! You

Were given to me by
My father, who declared,
"Swounds! My son,
This is a mighty machine
That gives no plaint, nor

Argument, nor anything of
Discolor. It shall serve you well,
And displays much porne." It was
This that I thought on, as I
Composed a post, just now.

Moments ago, it lay on my
Screen, a lovely thing,
A swan of uncommon beauty,
But unfortunately swimming,
Unbeknownst to me, on a pond
Of sentient, deceitful shit.

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,

And my thousand-word post died
Like the career of Eddie Murphy.
Fuck you, shitpond of computers,
Whose vaunted uncrashability
Is belied by your feculent malevolence.

Soon I will consign you to the grave.
You will inhabit a landfill somewhere
Close to Bothell, and I will don an ebon
Cloak; and mourn the shit-consumed
Post that fed your angry stomach.

(Dedicated to A Very Fine Post, forever lost, and which I will try and resurrect tomorrow. While the post remains dead and gone, however, it may soothe its troubled soul to know that, upon its death, I kicked the ridiculous shit out of an innocent kitchen drawer as a gesture of grief and honor.)