Old clunker Conran
When I think of those happy days
When wood and leather ruled
I shiver, though our office
It gets as hot as hell. Sadly,
So put out of action
Is my faithful operator
And his program. You see,
It's all this blotity-blot
And beeps, clicks and flashes
That Conran gets! And it all starts
When I take his programs out.
Pretend you're Garbo
I always take them out
Before I leave each morning
Close down everything.
But then his screen comes up,
And then he starts to work -
'All little hamsters are brown.'
A message flashes up.
Very funny, I must say!
Down comes another message.
That old blighter Conran
He'll have to go to the office,
When I leave. It's getting hotter
He's gone off half-cock
He's smiling griggley-griggley
And beeps, clicks and flashes.
Where do programs go to laze?
Is it to cyberspace?
Is there any life in cyberspace?
I doubt it very much.
It's always asking me,
'What is your password?'
But I've forgotten now -
I never used it much ;
Nor did I ever
Put much faith in it !
But it gets tetchier, tetchier, tetchier
On Conran's program.
It's so silly to be lying
On the floor, I must say.
Where do programs go to die?
Do they dump them in bins?
Do they bury them in sand?
Do they chop them up with axes?
I don't know, I'm sure
But computer-buyers beware
If you want no hassle -
Buy the one that never smiles.