They are sneaky little perverts,
Abusing what was made
For connection and efficiency.
They just can't make the grade:

They are fueled by fear and envy,
Knowing, each one, deep inside,
They deserve dislike from others -
It's a truth too plain to hide.

So they blame all those around them
For a fault that's theirs alone,
And they wreak revenge for nothing,
Upon folks they've never known.

Because they have the intellect
To know that if they met,
The sickness deep inside would show
In ways that they'd regret.

So pre-emptively they strike,
To introduce themselves through harm;
And they find their only comfort
In the knowledge of alarm.

A war of petty problems,
Petty people, petty games,
Taking refuge behind shadows,
In a world without names.

They are nameless faceless shadows,
Laying blame on you and me
For the emptiness inside them
That their acts make plain to see.

So it's apt we call them 'virus'
Small things' builders smaller still
And the makers show their measure
What a feat - they make us ill.

Are they proud to know that all
They can accomplish with their work
Is to show the whole wide world
That they're a hateful little jerk?

November 2000