Poets have talked about Nature, Moon and love,
To those great souls I indeed Bow.
I, this poem to internet dedicate,
That’s the topic of the date.
You call it the information storehouse,
through which people surf and browse.
Your thirst for data it quenches.
In the info rain it drenches.
You call it Magic at your fingers,
The aftermath forever it lingers.
This aura has all possessed.
This fever has all obsessed.
This Aura is the Internet;
This fever is the Internet;
The only web that’s a maze,
Of chaos there’s no trace.
This web weaved across the world,
It makes you an info nerd.