For twenty grueling years he ran,
Performing services for man.
When junked, he whirrs a surly “Damn!”
He’s obsolete indeed.
He runs a thousandth of the RAM,
A hundredth of the speed.
He lives for pixelated risk
And lust. The latter drive
Resides within his floppy disk,
A spacious 3.5.
And sometimes, twice a week perhaps,
His celibate façade will lapse.
He’ll spill his kilobytes unborn
To lurid ASCII porn.




