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Manchester BSD UG: December 5th



Twas 20 nights before Christmas, when in the public-house
Not a device was IRQing, not even a bluetooth mouse.
The staff hung by the bar of the saloon with care,
In hopes that the BSD UG soon would be there.

Various Mancunians were nestled by their desks,
While visions of gadgets danced in their heads.
And geeks who were new, and Pete in his cap,
Were considering how to get there, aided by map.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,
The barstaff arose to see what was the matter.
Away to the window they flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The damp, wet pavement seemed empty and bare
"Maybe this month", they thought, "they just don't care?"
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a dozen geeks dressed in their finest geek gear

With a fat bald organiser, so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment he must be "that dick".
More rapid than eagles his companions they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dave! now, Pete! now, John and Bob!
On, Richard! On, Sam! And me, the fat knob!
To the front of the bar! to the back of the pub!
Now chat away! All welcome at our little club!"

The output of horrid scripts was their real beef,
And the staff of PC World, they wished to send a wreath.
They discussed satnav, laptops and home audio,
But BSD was their kin, and they were all in the know

Till late at night they sat in the Briton's Protection
Since 7pm, they had constituted quite a collection.
This Chrismas meet, on the 5th December,
Sure to be one they'd be too drunk to remember

To those who don't know this fine old place
50 Great Bridgewater Street is where we grace
To find us friends amongst a pub of UNIX foes
Just look for our faces, sunburnt from CRT glows

Our tubby organiser asks all who intend to come along
To let him know, so he doesn't end up looking a mong
To those who can not attend, despite intentions so dear,
We say to you "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!"

[With sincerest apologies to the memory of Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863) currently spinning at a very high RPM in his grave]
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