The Operating System

The System Disk That wide open plan, The desktop area so spacious, A vast canvas so beautiful; Why do you sit there, Open to all for their curiosity? When you to me call. Oh cupboard, that hard disk brimming with identity, Memory no problem, even lacking files; Proficiently organised with raging delight, Amorous filing system which you employ. All disks are obvious, seen by me, Begging to be viewed, added to or changed, Offering usage stats and permissions, That are not just the programmer’s privilege, But any user's decree. No LOGO, no dos, No text-based system to beat, No floppies to be distorted, By the drives' magnetic wheels. Encrypted files are offered, But that requires some introspection, About whether or not your loved one, Would really infraltrate your disk, And read your documents. My computer is a reflection of me, My order or my mayhem; No longer my prowess and endeavour, ‘Cos my articulations are my graft, Not the machine’s mechanisations.