…let me count the ways:
Thy ever-spinning coloured ball doth twirl,
It driveth me to the very gates of hell.
I’m old; thou came’st when I was but a girl!
If thou’d speed up, ‘twould be by magick spell!
I try to place my reluctant cursor down,
It resisteth all my strength, it will not stay.
Thy “speed” so slow it truly doth astound,
For it’s still saving a file from yesterday.
My brain, it runs a mile ahead of thine
For thou art tired, thy pace it does abate
It hurts to think thy junky hulk is mine
Face the truth, you’re from two-thou’-and-eight!
‘Tis time to retire thy weary screen and keys
And find me a new machine for a couple of g’s.