Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through posts,
Till on the haunting glare we turned our backs
And towards our kitchens went to make some toast.
Men wrote asleep. Many had lost the plot
But limped on, blood-shot. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf to the cheap shots
Of disappointed blogs that dropped behind.
POST! Post! New post!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Correcting your hasty comment just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim and 'anonymous', he treads water
In a sea thick with words, soon he is drowning.
UPDATE: thanks to the ever lyrical Pete in Dunbar, for finishing this one off. With your permission, Andy...?
He fills my screen, before my helpless sight,
He rages at me, spluttering, choking, swearing.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the keyboard as he's logging in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of spin;
If you could read, in every post, disgust
Come grumbling from his sleep-corrupted prose,
Obscene as can be, bitter with mistrust
Of vile, unspeakable scores of eminent rogues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To readers ardent for some brand new bogey,
The old Lie: Dulce et Decorum est
In cubiculo blogi.