ELENA180'S ADDITION TO THE VANITY PRESS OF HOME-GROAN PAGES
mIRC KEY BLUES
(to the tune of Allan Sherman's "Hello, Muddah, Hello Fadduh")
Hello Mother. How're you feeling?
Dinner's boiled and - on the ceiling.
Can you get off - IRC now?
All my clothes are mildewed, dryer's burnt, come see now!
You keep smiling,- and dismiss me.
Said you'd tuck me - in and kiss me.
That was early - back in May, Mom.
Now it's August, I can't wait another day, Mom!
We've no milk nor - bread and butter
Lost my brother - in the clutter.
Can you leave the - chat room, please, Mom?
All my fish contracted ick, the bird has fleas, Mom.
Now I don't want - to deceive you,
But our father's - gonna leave you.
He tried phoning, shouting, kissing,
Then reported you as kidnaped, deaf and missing.
Turn IT off
Please cook ONE dinner
Turn IT off
I'm vastly thinner
I need clothes
And by the way, I shave
I need a razor
(NO, I'm DAVE)
Dear computer - where's my mother
You've replaced her - with another
If she wonders - how I'm coping
Won't you e-mail Mom and tell her I'm eloping!
Compulsion lets your reason stray
Medulla dulls and thoughts decay,Forecast disaster,
Still you stay...
You must be brilliant, sharp, and deep.
(or possibly you're sound asleep)
(Written to the tune of Uncle Isaac's Passover Yiddish Song - if you know it sing it so everyone else can hear it)
Religiously shop till you drop
And substance abuse OUT you COP
In meaningless channels you hop
Of life, IRC is the top
You've even stopped dating
If only "THEY'd" make you an "OP"!
On channels just how do you pick
The OPS? Just whose boots must you lick?
On whom must you spread it on thick?
You think they all hated your "nick"
You came from #MINDSLUDGES
But who the heck judges?
As "OP" you'll derive quite a kick.
You're kicked off most channels (no loss)
You're banned on a few (with a toss)
But freedom of speech is your cross
To bear with your own brand of floss
Some say they should "OP" you
It may, in time, stop you
From being an undernet boss!
Are you getting sleepy, yet?
Soapballs Off the Cuff
(to the tune of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes")
They asked him how he chose
When he might propose
He had checked the toes
Of her pantihose
Then he felt her clothes
She hissed, that's quite enough
Don't go through my stuff!
He had found some fluff
Lint, and bits of tough
Soapballs in her cuff
So he knew, this gal would never do
Her laundry without his aid
He can't cope with balled up bits of soap
He would reject this maid
Someday he'll find a bride
Test her with the Tide
When the laundry's dried
Check each hem inside
Soapballs be his guide...
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© 1996 "Elena180"