For Yahoo, Google, et al.
The only mode we’re given is a hole
Which leads into a stomach, not a brain
Though nobody believes there is a soul
At least not anyone who’s not insane
But lunatics can press the buttons too
By poking with their little monkey hands
And everything submitted brings to view
Results like magic answering demands
And here I sit, a monkey like the rest
A lunatic compelled to do this deed
What vomitus will come from my request
To find the information that I need
And so, in spite of everything I wrote
I stick my finger down your narrow throat