I am the very model of a Luddite on the Internet
I've hacked away for ages but I really haven't got it yet
Confounded by advancements in mysterious technology
I settle into vitriol and eloquent scatology

My screen's monochromatic, I've no graphic capability
(Though some would claim that colours on one's screen suggest virility)
My motherboard is ancient, proof of long-gone genealogy
The whole contraption's just a tragic ode to gerontology

The 'puter's like a lions' den, and I am like a Daniel
Don't know how to approach it 'cos I can't decrypt the manual
Confronted by instructions on the screen, I get quite panicky
And spend a long time searching for that most elusive "any" key

The workings seem so delicate, so dreadfully precarious
Requiring careful handling, like a crumbly Stradivarius
Rememb'ring that my 'puter's just a nest of fragile wiring
I stop myself from kicking it to keep it from expiring

To matters computational, I'll gain a great affinity
And prove that thinking technic'ly ain't linked to masculinity
'Til then, my lack of expertise may well seem highly risible
But I've yet to blow up a thing! -- or join the choir invisible