When I sit before a colored Pc,
During my restless void times to see
And to scan the unending pages of green
That drops down from the tech screen,
Of internet and broad-band width,
To grab the matter and images filth,
From numbers to sentences dense,
From syllables of sense to non-sense,
Of true and untrue meaning of mess,
That came out of countless men’s guess,
For which my eye-balls pop-out,
To the discomfiture of inner shout,
While lachrymal bleed tears of strain,
To the madness of thirsty crooked brain.