Episode 2. A Prologue
Papa, Oh Papa, repeat the story true,
Of machines that rotate, spin and hew,
Steel and oil that are smoking too,
With flying hot chips that turn the air blue.
My little ones inquisitive and naïve,
Imagine machines that rip and cleave,
All day, all night, till All Hollows Eve,
These automatons died, but do not bereave.
Papa, Oh Papa, tell us the story so bright,
Of electron tubes and adders with might,
That calculate hexadecimaly, byte-by-byte,
With every answer accurate and right.
The priests of programming donned their blue robes,
Then waved rubber chickens, lizards and toads,
To magically devise queer algorithms and modes,
For predicting profits, elections, in various codes.
Papa, Oh Papa, tell us the story so sad,
Of the executive who was very very bad,
Was his ineptness almost the sign of a cad,
Did he not accept blame, not even a tad?
Prima, you know the story so well,
Secunda, you blow the story up swell,
Tertia, if only you could just tell,
The tale to yourselves, while I rest in the dell.