Dimension - A sonnet

All things must fade. There is for most software
The same tomorrow as for a-regans:
Meetings pass, docs written, nothing good pans.
Our Dot Com shiny toys yet shall fare
Like shattered dreams of youth. A deep breath,
Most bosses defend their expensive thrills
And though young coders vaunt their upstart skills,
The whiff of our defeat shall entice death.
So--from IS2 to scud we prance
With heavy hearts we shuffle in the dark
Alongside Dimension, fanfare pipes,
Sick of her year long march of arrogance,
With too many bugs, and no likely spark
Her epigraph upon our cv types.


(Italian form) abbabbacdecde

REF 20030710020338483122