This was my response to a Supplicant's "question", which consisted of the first two lines of this poem. It hasn't made it into the Digests, but since the Christmas season is nigh, I figured I would put it up for now.
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the temple,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the Oracle.
The woodchucks were hanged from the chimney's rough flint,
In hopes that some supplicants could take a hint.
The Priests they were nestled all snug on their straw,
While visions of feather-beds filled them with awe.
And Lisa in her teddy, and I in the pool,
Had just dimmed the lights for to celebrate Yule --
When from the computer arose such a beeping,
I put down the handcuffs to see why 'twas cheeping.
Away to the keyboard I flew like a plane,
To read the words filling the screen like a stain.
The glow from the words on the video screen
Made everything near it look leprous and green,
When, what to my frustrated eyes should appear,
But a single right caret, so stark and severe;
Without any grovel -- not even a word!
I swore that the supplicant was a small turd.
More rapid than eagles my curses they came,
And I screamed, and shouted, and called him rude names.
"You smeghead! You pricklouse! You sniveling runt!
You WebTV luser (if I may be blunt)!
To my closet of LARTs! What fun toys have I got?
(I mustn't o'er-use my well-worn Staff of Zot!)"
So I pulled out my tracing-and-teleport wand,
And my fireproof underwear quickly I donned.
I waved the wand madly; the air it turned blue;
A sparkling appeared, and the Supplicant too.
And then, in a twinkling, he crashed to the floor;
With him gaping in terror, I bolted the door.
So I slid home the bolt, and I turned back with glee,
To confront the mere mortal who'd tangled with me.
He was slovenly dressed, all unkempt and rough,
And his clothes were all tarnished with food stains and stuff.
A knapsack of books he had strapped to his back,
And a smell like old sweatsocks arose from the pack.
His lips--how they quivered! his small eyes, how inset!
His cheeks were like Braille, his nose like a faucet!
His droll little mouth was stretched out in a scream,
As he frantically searched for an end to this dream.
A chewed-up old pencil fell from his right ear,
And his mouse-callused hand shook with tremors of fear.
He had a pale face and a little round belly,
That shook, as he sobbed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right wretched young pup,
And I laughed when I saw him; my anger let up.
No torture of mine could be worse than the fate
Of being this queue-draining geek reprobate.
I spoke not a word, but just pointed and sneered,
Then I waved the wand under his pitiful beard.
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
He gave a small whimper; in midair he rose,
And faded from view. I shut off the computers,
And went back to Lisa's incredible hooters.
But I softly exclaimed, ere we found Paradise,
"You queue-drainers beware; I'm not always this nice."
(With profuse apologies to Clement Clarke Moore...)