Wee sticky, sleek and stubborn beastie
Ye canna’ point
Na north, na eastie
Nae matter how I push
And slide you on
Your odious little pad
Your cursor, curse it,
Stays put or dawdles,
Meanders where it wants.
Has someone cut your cord?
Witless, e’en wireless?
Are ye on your own, lass?
Na far, you’ll get
Beyond this gray electron patch,
Your gray dominion.
Since you’re sae sticky
I think I’ll have a look inside thee
Off with your cover
Ah, there for ilke man to see
Wrapped ‘round your tiny shafts
The stuff of mousepads,
Detritus of dead skin cells
From unsuspecting users
Who left tracks of their DNA
Inside your house
When they were making
Witting marks on screens.
Dupes of “user-friendly” ads.
Fie on them all!
Teach them to fiddle
With a mouse trap.
The best laid plans o’ men
Often go awry.
What you’ve hoarded
Inside your gummed up works
May some day solve a crime
A doltish beastie like yourself
Can afford to gloat.
You’ve nae cause to fret:
The present only toucheth thee.
But those who’ve wrapped
Their hands around thee--
Stealers of identity
May come to grieve their past
And dread the days ahead.
As much mousetrap as mouse
A dual identity
Quiet as an electron’s song,
Still ye may be,
In annals of the FBI,
A mouse that roared.
© Bill Sypher, 2014
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| Trust wheel-mouse MI-1200 PS2 Photo by Mart Rootamm from Wikimedia Commons |
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