O VRANGSINN! my Vrangsinn! your fearful trip is done;
Your body's weather'd every trick, of Doctor Number One;
Your wallet's clear, the poorhouse near, the physicians all exulting,
While follow eyes the test results, the bills so grim and blaring;
  But O heart! heart! heart!
   O the bleeding drops of red,
    Where on the net the Vrang's link lies,
     Fallen cold and dead.
 
O Vrangsinn! my Vrangsinn! log on and hear the bells;
Log on--for you the globe's restored--for you are many tells;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the MUD's a-crowding;
For you they note, the slaying mass, their eager fingers waiting;
  Here Vrangsinn! dear Helper!
   This net-link for your head;
    It is some dream that in Limbo,
     Your link has fallen dead.
 
My Vrangsinn does not answer, his link is cold and still;
That Helper does not read my tells, he has no link nor will;
The tests are finish'd safe and sound, their input saved and done;
From fun-filled trip, the doctor ship, shall come with money won,
  Exult, O Imms, and spam, O newbs!
   But I, with mournful tread,
    Pcheck the MUD my Vrangsinn lies,
     Silent and Link-dead.
 
-Oladon, the Bard