There was a young man from Atlanta,
Who liked to engage in light bantah.
      Whenever he’d speak,
      The ladies grew weak—
And sat in his lap like a Santa.

There once was a woman named Terri,
Who liked her men brawny and hairy.
      She also liked wit,
      But picked every nit,
And lacked judgement elementary.

There once was a woman from Dacia,
Who earnestly watched her acacia.
      She watered and tended,
      And even pretended:
It was this which cured her rosacea.

There was a young lady from Akron,
Who never ate sugar, but Saccharin^®.
      When cotton had failed ’er,
      She learned how to tailor—
And made all her clothes out of Dacron^®.

There once was a group of young ladies,
Who liked to discuss God and Hades.
      They always did read
      Their Bibles—indeed,
It was this that fueled their debaties.

There was a young woman named NIChole,
Who’d gotten into quite a PICKle.
      For reasons I WON’T state,
      It seems she would NOT date;
Her fancy I know I did TICKle.

There once was a woman Discordian,
Who, theatrically, loathed the Edwardian.
      When proffered an Ibsen,
      She’d have a conniption,
And settle on something more Bardian.

There once was a baker from Roswell,
Who liked reading Johnson, by Boswell.
      And as to a topping,
      Fondant had him hopping
To cover petits fours with frost well.

There once was a girl quite Amandan,
Who seemed as content as a Pandan.
      She swept and she mopped,
      And baked as she hopped,
From this—then to that—with abandon.

There once was a mate from Uganda,
Who loved to make fun of Nuwanda.
      He spat out his betels
      In quaint little petals,
And drove a phat, gangstered-up Honda.

There once was a sysop named Bradford,
Whose uptime was nothing but badford.
      For careless abends,
      He made no amends,
But blamed it on bit rot—quite sadford.

There once was a system, X Win,
Whose mission was just to be thin.
      But clients and servers
      Reversing their purpose
Is destined to cause confusion.

I guess there are rules known as GAAP,
Which oversee accounting craap.
      Even if fifty blokes
      Find these rules nifty—Folks,
I still want to go take a naap.

Foretellin’: A man called Lewellyn—
Excellin’ at all things but spellin’—
      His new interface
      Will one day replace
The workers with barely trained hellions.

There once was a program called S-A-P,
Whose purpose was not quite simplicity.
      And when it was in,
      We then could begin
To govern our work with duplicity.

There once was a system called OpenView^®,
Which constantly major alarms did spew.
      It doesn’t take college
      To right-click acknowledge,
Nor even to right-click-it ticket-to.

There once was a woman named Janet,
Whose act was so lewd that they banned it.
      And when the young man
      Did reach out his hand,
Her breast—which had popped out—did span it.

There was a fine woman named Maura,
Who had quite a sexual aura.
      She could have been hotter,
      But still she was fodder,
And far too divine to ignoraura.

Two fools, whilst installing some TECTUM^®,
Requested someone to direct ’em.
      Said I, with a grin:
      “You’d best first begin
By taking your head from your rectum.”

There once was a man called Euripides,
Who was horny, if not quite libidinous.
      When not writing plays,
      He was on the bidet,
Flushing his great epididymis.

Il y avait un ménage à trois,
Qui avait l’air d’un je ne sais quoi
      Personne ne pouvait
      Savoir ce qu’ils faisaient,
Ni s’il y avaient des culs si des chattes.