The Magazine Jockeys

’Twas finished! And the tired group
Perspired and rambled in their daze;
All flimsy were their hollow gourds
And their swollen brains deranged!

Oh bear these Jockeys’ work, dear school!
Their minds now mush, their nerves now shot;
Oh bear the blubbering of these fools,
Their delirious states of shock!

Paul worked the keys to melted pulp,
Long time the machine’s soul he sought;
No rest for he, no Tumtum tree,
He wrestled with his lot!

So too an agonized Argir sat,
A jockey with eyes of flame;
She grappled like a possessed hack
To conquer the ’puter’s brain!

Tik Tak! Tik Tak! And through and through,
The smoking keys were hit and whacked.
Joan’s eyes were red, and fingers dead,
But galumphing she attacked!

And didst they do the Jockey’s work,
These heroes sore and drained?
Of course! Oh Joy! Callooh! Callay!
They worked till break of day!

’Twas finished! And the tired group
Perspired and rambled in their daze;
All flimsy were their hollow gourds
And their swollen brains deranged!

— with thanks to Lewis Carroll

(1996)