Whose codes these are I think I know,
They have been dead for a while though;
They will certainly not mind me throwing
Their sub-routines out of the window.
My computer must think it queer,
To attempt this task without fear,
Between a rock and a hard place,
The longest evening of the year.
I give the compiler a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
Tired itself, it responds in a ages,
Several warnings and error messages.
The bed is lovely, warm and crêpe,
But I have deadlines to keep,
And files to code before I sleep,
And files to code before I sleep.
(with apologies to Robert Frost)