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To the tune of Windmills Of Your Mind

Windows on my mind by Tom Holt

Like a trouser needing hemming,
Like a nose that longs to sniff,
Like the squealing of a lemming
As it topples off a cliff;
Like a system overloading,
Like an ambush in the gloom,
Like a VDU exploding,
Throwing glass across the room;
Like a maggot in an apple
That you notice once you've bit -
That's how I feel when I grapple
With this useless heap of shit,
Reinstalling on my drive
Bloody Windows 95.

The upgraded form of Windows
Launched in 1995
Never helps but always hinders,
Though its author seems to thrive.
Yet in each important feature
It's a dead and total loss;
It's an awkward, bastard creature
With its shrivelled core of DOS.
Though the pundits all abuse it
And the punters know it smells,
They've no option but to use it
'Cos there isn't nothing else.
That's why everyone alive
Uses Windows 95

Never working, always crashing,
Never better, always worse;
When your hard drive it is trashing,
You will squeal and you will curse.
For your days are spent in terror
And your nights are spent in fear
That the screen will flash up ERROR
And your work will disappear.
Is it punishment from Satan
Or the malice of the fates?
There's no use in us debatin',
We had better ask Bill Gates.
You're unlikely to survive
Using Windows 95.

[The song comes from the heart. Believe me...]

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Book Cover of Who's Afraid of Beowulf?

Quote from Who's Afraid of Beowulf?

`Will they be all right?' Hildy asked doubtfully. `They don't seem very practical to me.'
 The King nodded. `I should think so,' he said. `Take Angantyr Asmundarson, for instance. To join the muster at Melvich, he marched all night from Brough Head to Burwick - that's right across two msin islands of Orkney - and since there was no boat available he swam over from Burwick to the mainland, in the middle of a storm. Then he ran all the way from Duncansby Head to Melvich, on the morning before the battle, and still fought in the front rank against the stone-rolls of Finnmark. Complaining bitterly about his wet clothes and how he was going to catch his death pneumonia, of course, but that's just his way.' He paused, and contemplated his fingernails for a moment.
 `Put like that, I suppose, it rather proves your point. Only a complete idiot would have gone to so much trouble to get involved in a battle.
 Come on,' he said briskly, `it's time we were going.'
(Tom Holt, "Who's Afraid of Beowulf?")
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