This is sung to the tune of the Eagles's _Hotel California_.

On a dark Wednesday evening; dandruff flakes in my hair,
Warm smell of toner cartridge, rising up through the air
On my Mac's little desktop, I saw a shimmering light,
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dimmer
I had to log in, all right.

There she was running RMAIL,
I hear the talk request bell,
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven, or this could be Hell."
Then she pulled out the manual, and she showed me the way
There were voices on the network lines,
I thought I heard them say...

Welcome to the system called Minerva,
Such a lovely place (such a deathly pace)
Plenty of room on the system called Minerva,
Any time of year, you can log in here.

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the CA bends.
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends.
How they ask her the questions, sweet innocent ones.
Some ask to remember, some ask to forget.

So I called up the emacs,
"Let me edit my file."
It said, "We haven't had that happen since August of 89."
And still the little block cursor is blinking away;
Mailed consult at Minerva,
Just to hear them say...

Welcome to the system called Minerva,
Such a lovely place (such a deathly pace)
Plenty of room on the system called Minerva,
Any time of year, you can log in here.

Minerva was crawling,
Like an inchworm on ice,
And she said, "We are just prisoners here, of our own device."
And in the various clusters,
The users having keyboard fun,
They stab them with their bony hands,
But they just can't get shit done.

Last thing I remember, I was
Jabbing the escape key--
I had to find the passage back,
To the place I used to be.
"Relax," said the C shell,
"I am programmed to receive.
You can log out any time you like,
but you can never leave."