TW... you're nearly dead.
Like a spider caught in a glass jar,
It's only a matter of time before they grow bored of your scrabblings,
And stamp out your life.

TW... you burned like fire,
In days gone by when arguments raged,
And a hundred posts a week would fly,
Like arrows of truth through dial up connections.

TW... you were indecent.
Cynical hate filled posting,
Flaying the weak and seperating the chaff,
With a tubgirl or two thrown in.

TW... you were first.
Before Facebook and Myspace,
My only avenue of spleen,
From the myriad distractions of life.

TW... you lost purpose.
Bowie fled like a shade,
And adminstrators and moderators moved on,
With their lives leaving a carcass.

TW... you were mine.
I never contributed as much I would have liked,
Was never funny enough,
Or clever enough for my liking...

But you were mine...
You were ours.

I will miss you.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.