This is the tale of a prune-complexioned old crone, Who, despite her grotesque countenance, was nonetheless wize of brain, And generous of heart, When she felt so disposed. And so the story goes, That some very many eons ago, In a time beyond the recollection of any mortal man who now has breath, This geriatric being was appointed custodian, Of the computerised facilities, Within the clandestine walls of a reputable institution, Whose name I shall pledge to safeguard, With anonimity, And is, in the scheme of things, of little consequence. Centuries passed without significant incident, The children pranced happily and unmolested through her domain, Learning the pure and innocent ways of Qbasic, For the meagre fee of just seven round pennies a day, Or whatever they could afford. Many fine men were nurtured under the folds of her warm, sagging bosom, Churchill, Socrates, Ian Dury, And many more besides. Her skill with was renowned throughout the known world, Revered by many, Scorned by none. Until! A crisp white envelope plopped one morning through the letter box, Of her otherwise impregnable nest. "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo...." It informed of new status, Under the august authority of Mr Levin, Grand High Councillor, Of the Seven Circles of the Manacled Groin. Her services were, the communication conveyed, In the fullnes of things, Obsolete. Her rubbery lips foretold, "If you destroy me, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." You may think this line was first penned by George Lucas, In his 1977 film, Star Trek, But you would be wrong. The prophetess had concocted the phrase for later use, Back in the summer of '76, Only to have it cruelly plagarised, With foolish abandon, by the slack tongued Alec Guinness. It mattered not, Since Mr. Levin had not seen this particular motion picture, You see, he was too busy culling Niggers in South Africa at the time, And had never got round to renting it on video, Nor viewing it on the television at Christmas. The sewers became her refuge, And, in time, her home. While, down in those septic depths, her frail body decayed, Even further than it had done within the wholesome realms of suburbia, Her mind was left to scheme and to plot, to contrive and concoct. Luckily, some of the other foul mutants, Whom she had embraced as her compatriots, (Even literally in some cases, dispite their sporadic personal hygene rituals,) And whom she had eventually learned to love as her own, Were eager to aid her in her plans. Amongst the fetid waste, That is, I am trying to say, amongst the faeces and urine, They built a machine there, No, more than a machine, A living contraption set in a vast underground complex, With transparent tubes carrying unidentifiable liquids to and fro, And jars of pickled offal. The stench of vile chemicals contested with rectal fragrances, For supremacy over the occupants' involutarily dilated nostrils, And multitudinous ducts ran the length of every corridor, All finished in satin chrome, Whilst circuit boards were left unnecessarily unhoused, With cables hanging from missing overhead pannels, And rusty machinery churned and ground with an admirable stoicism. There was even a dry-ice maker. And at the core of this subterranean metropolis, Sat our heroine, Upon her metallic throne, Wires and valves sprouting from every place where there was an orifice, And from some places where there was not, Though to fight off infection, Was a daily chore. At first it was just the IT centre, (Over which she previously held the command,) That she saught to control, Yet, somehow, the greed grew, Like some sprawling, tentacled mass within her. She tried to restrain herself, Her mucus smeared body spasmed with the effort of it, But she could not, Her seething resentment was too great, And so her influence spread, Until the whole of modern civilisation, Fell under her dominion. Quick! Summon the maintenance droid! The pus outlet sluice has become clogged! Bizarre mechanical contrivances whirred about the sweling abdomen, Probing, puncturing, purloining, Too late! A rupture! Viscous fluids, That once might have been described as bodily, Adorned the chamber walls, With vibrant yellows and greens. Drip, Drip, Drip. Mr Reynolds the caretaker, (It had always been his dream to work, On some sort of sick, ethically-questionable cybernetic project,) Wretched, Through the curtain of semi-biological slime, Which was slowly oozing over his moustache-enhanced face. The caretaker bent down by the jellied carcass, Brushing aside a lock of grey, greasy, balding hair, rooted loosely into her electrode-pitted scalp, And placed a delicate kiss upon her cold, greying forehead, For she was still just a woman, A woman whose name was Mrs. Briggs. The service mechanoinds began the reclamation procedure, To salvage her still quivering brain, And spinal Column.