soobiebear | Dec. 10th, 2007

It's not the way you look that really makes me so irate,
It's more the way you crash that tends to multiply my hate.
Your fan is always running, blowing hot air 'neath my feet
And makes a sound that's not unlike a leafblower in heat.
I touch your mouse, caress your keys with kindness and with care
And hope that you don't crash before I store this file somewhere.
I defragment you, I check your disk for sectors good and bad
I clean your screen and I check your disk; I polish your mouse pad.
I've tried to fix you many times, I've given up on it
There's no more patience left in me for such a piece of (insert word of choice here).
Your Windows run so slowly even Bill Gates would agree
You'd make a better doormat than a personal PC
Your processor has reached the speed of turtles lying still
I'll toss you out the window soon, I swear to God I will

See you soon (if my laptop cooperates).