a nearly satisfactory hypermegaultraquantumcompumultiversalnet creation

Now Is The Summer Of Our Discontent

Summer reading has arrived. Now is the summer of our discontent. (With apologies to Shakespeare, natch)

Now is the summer of our discontent
Made horrendous winter by this kids' program;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows furrowed concern and despair;
Our monuments draped with children's play;
Our merry meetings changed to stern alarums,
Our delightful measure to dreadful marches.
Grim-visaged war hath wrinkled his smooth'd front;
And now, we all must mount the barded steads
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
Who caper nimbly in a children's lib'ry
To the sonic screeching of wailing siren
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to chase an energetic devil;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want silence's majesty
To strut before a coffee maker full;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of comfort by destructive nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
In children's programming world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That kids scream at me as I read to them;
Why, I, in this strong piping time of conflict,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot provide my peace,
And entertain these fair well-spooked days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the reading pleasures of these youths.
Plots have I laid, inductions delicate,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set the youngsters and their siblings
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if a juvenile be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should young ones closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that they
Of all our heirs the readers shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
The moppets arrive.