

Stop all the downloadin’, turn off ICQ,
Prevent the paperclip from offering to help you,
Silence RealPlayer, and with CRT hum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let banner ads flash moaning overhead
popping under messages that It is Dead.
Put black bows round the neck of a dancing hamster,
Sob for “mic in track,” share it on Napster.
It was my journal, my rant, my chat and bulletin board
My webring and my Top Website award,
My slashfic, my webshrine, my MIDI song;
I thought my page would last forever: I was wrong.
Our sites are not wanted; delete every ‘zine,
Send the data off to the Wayback Machine.
Our time has passed, we’re no longer needed,
And our bandwidth now is forever exceeded.
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