No longer some dry web, the world is wet—
As deep at least as when it was just wide.
A sea of words is sloshed across the net,
The voices of an ever-rising tide.
To learn to read is now to learn to swim
The currents deep or in a shallow pool
Of thoughtful exposition, or the whim
Of some inebriated, pissing fool.
Now like some modern mariners we feel
Becalmed by all the words these blogs have cried—
Directionless, with no one at the wheel,
Around our necks their albatross is tied.
The curse, again is not that boards will shrink,
But water, water no one wants to drink.