If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,

and the bus is interrupted as a very last resort,

and the address of the memory makes your floppy disk abort,

then the socket packet pocket has an error to report.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash,

and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash,

and your data is corrupted ’cause the index doesn’t hash,

then your situation’s hopeless and your system’s gonna crash.

If the label on the cable on the table at your house,

says the network is connected to the button on your mouse,

but your packets want to tunnel on another protocol,

that’s repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall,

and your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss,

so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse,

then you may as well reboot it and go out with a bang,

’cause as sure as I’m a poet, your system’s gonna hang.

When the copy of your floppy’s getting sloppy on the disk,

and the microcode instructions cause unnecessary risk,

when you have to flash your memory and try to RAM your ROM,

quickly turn off the computer and be sure to call your Mom!!

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day, while trying to eke out a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog.

He dropped his tools and ran to the bog. There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.

The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman’s sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

“I want to repay you,” said the nobleman. “You saved my son’s life.”

“No, I can’t accept payment for what I did,” the Scottish farmer replied, waving off the offer.

At that moment, the farmer’s own son came to the door of the family hovel.

“Is that your son?” the nobleman asked.

“Yes,” the farmer replied proudly.

“I’ll make you a deal. Let me take him and give him a good education. If the lad is anything like his father, he’ll grow to a man you can be proud of.”

And that he did. In time, Farmer Fleming’s son graduated from St. Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.

Years afterward, the nobleman’s son was stricken with pneumonia. What saved him? Penicillin.

The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill. His son’s name? Sir Winston Churchill.