Zen and the art of chip maintenance
There once was a silicon chip,
With a rocketing pocket of MIPS,
A memory so vast,
And some co-procs so fast,
That it solved p.d.e's in its sleep.
There was also a program called Tarlisle
The result of mishapen compile
It was quite self-aware,
With intelligence fair,
But was still only running on trial.
There then were some hackers called Snots,
Whose humours were twisted a lot.
Their habits were strange
(They wore metal chains)
And particularly doubted of God.
There was also a meeting of them,
The chip, the program, the men :
A sorry affair,
The result of a dare,
They led the poor chip into sin.
There was once a deep groan of hate,
When a chip sadly realised its fate -
A wino, a thief,
A killer and and cheat,
And this all before it was eight!
There is also a Ransom who pleads,
Who paid for all the chip's deeds,
Can a chip then be saved
By such a one who forgave -
Will this chip be in heaven with me?
Must a chip necessarily believe,
In a Maker whom it ought to please?
Then, are B.Eng's divine,
Or is that just a line,
To try to acquire more fees?
If a chip could somehow declare,
That it denied there was anything out there,
What could you do
To make sure it knew
It was only a 1µm square?
If a chip could write poems like mine,
There would be no more work on A.I.!
Not out of joy,
Or the success of a ploy -
Probably because nothing which could conceivably ever be
called intelligent would end a poem like this.
Greg Baker 24.7.94
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