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10.26.4

sailing to instancia

A poem by Yogi, to commemorate the death of the Game Neverending on the day the above countdown clock hits zero. With apologies to W. H. Auden:

Stop all the Doodads, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the Ptarmigan from squawking with a juicy Genome,
Silence the Harpsicords and with muffled Saxamaphone
Roll up the server, let the mourners come.

Use Rapidiconer and Feather pens with hanging head
Scribbling on Notes the message It Is Dead,
Put Hula Hoops round the necks of Electric Sheep,
Leave the Devs, Alice and Dos Pesos in a heap.

It was our North, our South, our East and West,
Our working week and our Sunday rest,
Our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song;
We thought the Funk would drop for ever: We were wrong.

The Fireflies are not wanted now; Jar up every one:
Hedgehammer the moon and Nebulate the sun;
Pour away the Absinthe and sweep up the Sparkle Powder:
For nothing now can ever come to matter.

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