Spammers Will Spam

with sincere apologies to Dr. Seuss and no intention of infringing upon Twitter's trademark, name, profits, or anything else.


I am on Twitter Inc. most every day
but I wish the spammers would go away.
They think that I am stupid enough to click
Their U.R.L.s and other ick.
Only four percent of tweets are spam.
But still I really want to slam
those spammers back into the can.
I spam block and report and tweet and tweet
that the spammers really aren't so neat.
The support team does its' best to ban
those pesky spammers promoting spam.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

But the spammers multiply day and night
In spite of what I do to fight
The accounts that pop up with a fright.
"Look what they said about you," they say.
I just want them to go away.
"You've been picked for this or that,"
A special prize or a chance to make a psychic's wallet fat.
Up goes the dot before their "at"
As I tweet about the latest scam
I don't care who they are but I know who I am.
I am not a fool born yesterday.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

Spammers in my mailbox and everywhere.
A spammer here and a spammer there.
Here a spammer, there some spam
promoting infected websites or some scam.
I think the spammers should get jobs with the government.
They are the same sort of miscreants
As the politicians who lie to our faces every day
About the actions of the N.S.A.
Spammers must think their lives are easy
But they turn my stomach and make me queasy
Thinking about scumbag spammers in a pan.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

Spammers are worse than cellulite.
Spammers are worse than a rabid dog bite.
Spammers are worse than stepping in shit,
A broken heel and then falling in it.
Spammers are worse than pimples full of pus.
Spammers are worse than being stuck
On a broken down bus in the muck.
Spammers are worse than corrupted kings.
Spammers are worse than many things.
Spammers are not as bad as the N.S.A.
But that is subject to change any day.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

I am on Twitter Inc. most every day
but I wish the spammers would go away.
They think that I am stupid enough to click
Their U.R.L.s and other ick.
Only four percent of tweets are spam.
But still I really want to slam
those spammers back into the can.
I spam block and report and tweet and tweet
that the spammers really aren't so neat.
The support team does its' best to ban
those pesky spammers promoting spam.

c 2014 and beyond. This bad poem may be reproduced as long as you give credit to 
   sapphoq for its' origin.

Free Tags

To the Copy Monopoly Trolls: I took the pictures and altered them myself with my legally obtained camera and my legally obtained digital art program. So bugger off.

To everyone else: Right-click and download to save to your computer. No hot-linking please and thank-you. Use as you will. 

Dree RainCave Has a Plan

     Dree RainCave took his backpack from That Damn Stan.   "Thanks Stan.  See you and Kenneth in Philly tomorrow night." 

     Kenneth clapped Dree on the back, "We'll be in touch as soon as we know anything about Honey.  Please try not to worry too much.  We've got Tor on the case." 

     "Who's Tor again?" 

     "He's the fellow that is defending some of the PayBack 13.  He knows many of the locals," Kenneth said. 

     "He said he will call in a few favors," Stan said. "Maybe
we will bring Honey with us tomorrow." 

     Stan gave Dree a bear hug and then pushed him towards the waiting van.  "Don't do anything wild in Philly.  My cousin Artesia is a decent sort even if she is an odd bird." 

Dree grimaced, "Oh I know, I know.  Don't get high and stay off the fucking Internet."  Dree got into the van.


     "I'm The Preacher," the driver told him.  "But you can call me Preach."

Dree looked over the scruffy man.  Straight black hair down to his shoulders and a longer startling red beard. 

     "Okay Preach," Dree said, "Just as long as you don't preach to me."  He fastened his seatbelt and smiled briefly at the
dancing bears festooning the glove compartment. 

     "Hold on, Buddy.  You're in for the ride of your life.  I hope you're hungry.  We'll be stopping for pizza at this funky joint I know in Delaware."

     Dree RainCave had little time to think about his worries or about the promised pizza.  The van ripped through the traffic on the Beltway and then headed north.  The sign that welcomed him to Maryland whizzed by. 

     "Damn," Dree broke the silence, "Aren't you afraid of getting pulled over by the cops?" 

     The Preacher laughed and pointed to something on the dashboard.  "I'm a U.S. Marshall," he said and laughed some more.  "I don't get tickets."

     Dree clutched the armrest fiercely.  "Reassuring-- NOT," he said after the van buzzed by a toll plaza. 

     For an answer, The Preacher shoved a compact disc into the stereo unit.  The sounds of YT Cracker screaming a song about being a hacker blasted the air. 

     "Fancy speakers," Dree remarked. 

     "I'm a hacker too," The Preacher confided. 
    
Dree drifted off to sleep in spite of The Preacher's driving.  The Preacher continued the wild ride onward.  He passed several troopers.  One of them waved to him as the needle crested ninety-five.  Doing ninety-five on I-95.  The Preacher laughed maniacally.  There was a huge cloud hanging over the landscape on his left.  It's like velvet night, he thought.  As he rammed the van hard into the exit for Newark Delaware, the cloud burst
and a hard rain slicked up the road.

     "Wake up, Dree!  It's pizza time!" The Preacher yelled gleefully. He parked the van into a parking space right out in front of a fire hydrant.  The Preacher flopped the visor down so the sign
reading "CLERGY" was plainly visible.  "Come on now.  The pizza waits for no one."
     Dree yawned and then tumbled out of the van.  The pizza place was a small storefront and it was packed. 

     "Always," explained The Preacher.  "It's a hangout for the local hackers."  Dree opened the door.  There were spider plants and  day-glo posters.  "Retro," he remarked. 

     "So are you," The Preacher laughed.  He strolled to the only table open, in the back corner.

     "My table," The Preacher explained. 

     A waitress in a tight pair of blue jeans and red flannel shirt cut short came up to them.  "Hello, Preach," she said.  "The usual?"

     The Preacher nodded.  "But no beer.  I'm working."

     She glanced at Dree.  "None for him, either," The Preacher said. 

     "What is 'the usual?'" Dree asked. 

     "A garbage pizza with everything on it.  I hope you like
anchovies.  If not, you can pick them off."

     The Preacher consumed pizza at a rapid rate, all the while greeting various customers and talking about electronics and leaks.

      "Your support system," The Preacher told Dree.  "They all know who you are but they are too savvy to say so."

     Dree grabbed his third slice from the pan.  "It's great pizza.  I could get used to this place." 

     "Don't," cautioned The Preacher.  "I don't know where you are going to hide out after Friday but it won't be here."  

     Dree said nothing.  He had plans of his own.

                   
                                                       ~ uh...~

sapphoq n friends says:  Dear Reader:  Something changed during the writing of this Ed Snowden/Dree RainCave Serial FanFic.  On November 13th, I decided to write a first draft of a novel in a month.  This became part of it.  I am up to 40K words so far and expect to be done by December 13th.  After some re-writes, I will be publishing the digital novel with the fanfic included as an essential part of it.  I will let you know when it is available.  Up the Rebels!  sapphoq