The Great Culling
O, how I remember the great membership cull
of summer twenty-twelve:
admin, scything down bards young and old.
Rapidly, membership fell.
But, oh, how I miss that non-poster from Hull
and the girl whose books stayed in her mind.
I did not read the non-works of XTC-gull,
but still left them critiques most unkind.
I remember quite clearly the membership cull:
it was sunny, or maybe it rained.
But, whatever the weather, I know that, together,
we'll clog up the forums again.
Onward we write, now six hundred and more,
in belief that the culling was just,
standing shoulder-to-shoulder at our open door,
with our motto of ''In Mods We Trust''.
And should we be culled from six hundred to sixty,
I'll raise up my glass in a toast
and recall all the non-posts that I miss the most
from the host of our Great Writing ghosts.
O, how I remember the membership cull.
It rained. It snowed. The wind did blow.
Ah, yes, I remember it well!
Onward they wrote, the strange six hundred,
Into the volumes of dearth.
— Albert ''Lard'' Tiresome.
Last edited by Messiah
on Sat Jul 21, 2012 5:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Writing for an audience of one.