NOT WRITTEN BY Silat:} Unknown origin. Sorry about that guys and gals.....
The Arena Taunter (with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Under the spreading furball flying
The Arena Taunter dwells;
The Taunter, wants to cause some crying,
The Taunter can't get kills;
So safely he sits in the radio room,
On One he gets his thrills.
His hair is gone, but for, a fringe,
His face is flushed and bloated;
His brow is wet from an alcohol binge,
Even now he's loaded,
As he types his taunts on Channel One,
The enemy is goaded.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
He jams the air with bellows;
Claims we're all dweebs yet he won't fight,
He's not a friendly fellow,
Annoying as nails on a classroom chalkboard,
I think he's just yellow.
His children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to watch the typing fool
And love to hear him roar,
As all who listen are offended
By taunts from such a boor.
He goes on Sundays to New Users,
And dogs the brand new boys;
He calls them all a bunch of losers,
He likes to hear his voice,
And when he finally strikes a nerve,
It makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like the Angel's song,
Singing in Paradise!
He wants to make them argue long,
By cunning and by lies;
Laughing hard, he quickly wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Taunting---Dogging---acting rude,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning he starts acting crude,
Each evening sees it close;
People insulted, and people offended
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, you silly fool,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
For in this life there is one rule
And this is what I've caught;
The say the larger of ones WOO,
The smaller is his WAA.
Fizzzzzz
