A man who enjoyed writing code
once took a wrong turn down a road.
Forsaking recursion,
he took an excursion,
now dabbles in sonnets and odes.
His java is still close at hand,
but now it is black and smells grand.
Who needs a compiler?
Just hike a two-miler;
the bugs are all out on the land.
Categories:
miler, nature, work, writing,
Form: Limerick