'Twas The Week Before M.Bell

(with apologies to Clement Moore)

'Twas the week before M.Bell, when all through the list: Everybody was flaming; everybody was pissed;
The e-nsults were flung at each other in despair,: While common civility disappeared in thin air;
Like children, they lay awake nights in their beds,: While self-righteous put-downs danced in their heads;
And I, in my anorak, (a strange kind of cap),: Had just settled down to read all this crap,
When out of my mailbox there arose so much chatter,: I sprang from my chair to avoid the blood splatter.
Away from my 'puter I ran in a dash,: And went down to the pub; perhaps I'll get smashed.
But soon from my monitors flickering glow: The email came flooding in; shit, what a flow!
When, what to my red bloodshot eyes should appear,: But eight amarok-dailies (in ten minutes) Oh dear!
My trusty old modem, so lively and quick,: Was bogged down with downloads, it made me quite sick.
More vapid than Spice Girls the emails they came,: As they shouted, and called each other a name:
Now, "Shithead!" now, "Wankstain!" now, "Birdbrain" and "Moron!": I reached for a pencil & paper to keep score on.
It didn't take long for good manners to fall,: Now stab away! hack away! smash away, all!
While I'm usually a laid-back, easy-going kinda guy,: When I saw this lots' tripe, I started to cry.
So into the trash all the e-mails I threw,: The digests, the dailies, the off-topics too.
And then, in an instant, more appeared with a *poof*: More scratching and clawing, non-stop. What a goof!
As I threw in my hand, and was turning around,: My old modem gave up and died with no sound.
It doesn't take long for ill-will to take root,: Just give your opinion, your flame and yer boot!
The questions and interests of many years back,: Are now hackneyed and trite and quite ripe for attack.
That old green-eyed monster, all scaly and hairy,: Is an Amarok lurker. He's really quite scary!
He seems to appear here when topics get slow,: Now it's time to move on...let's get on with the show!
The insults and put-downs being hissed through clenched teeth,: Make no sense at all...what's the point? What's the beef?
This list is more violent than shows on the telly,: We could use a good laugh; where the hell is John Kelly?
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old fart,: With a voice like Gene Autry, and a hat like Black Bart;
But the Cowboy's not here, he's on Elements instead,: Where downloading e-mail won't fill you with dread;
Now he posts not a word, but goes straight to his work,: Not reading some arrogant, back-stabbing jerk.
So I may just go join him, I guess, I suppose,: Just as soon as I'm done re-arranging this prose;
I want Oldfield meat, not tendon and gristle,: Not flames thrown around like some mis-guided missile
But you'll hear me exclaim, as I give you my biddance,