When I get older, losing my hair,
Many years from now,
I will still be sittin' at a terminal,
Number crunching giving me hell,
Rewriting programs, running them through,
Logged in evermore.
I'll always be here.
I'll never leave here
'Til I'm sixty-four.
It would be dandy getting this done,
If it were correct.
But here I sit from Friday night 'til Saturday,
Sunday morning typing away.
One hundred hours all through the week,
Printouts on the floor.
I'll always be here.
I'll never leave here
'Til I'm sixty-four.
Send me a post card, drop me a line
From your graduate school.
Mail it "care of Barton Hall two-twenty-five."
Let me know if I'm still alive!
There you will find me buried beneath
Printouts by the score.
I'll always be here.
I'll never leave here
'Til I'm sixty-four.
Humor
