Some say the world's a game in god's computer;
So might she sometimes choose to save the game
Until a time our antics better suit her --
And time recovers, passing just the same?
So might I wish to store my heart's warm state
In cold bits waiting till a new reboot;
Or if it should turn out a bootless wait,
Our friend rm could render friendship moot.
Unless -- but bits rot too when undisturbed.
(Or so we take it, hot upgraders we,
Who sniff corruption, wrinkle nose, and crash,
Not blaming programs hacked and patched, refurbed
Till stinking cruft's masked only by our glee.)
Scan rotted bits? Why, no, I'll make them smash.


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