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On-Line Religion

Words: © 1995 by Tom Smith
Music: "Old Time Religion" (trad.)
This idea jelled January 4, 1995, after seeing that Cardinal John O'Connor of New York was on Prodigy, in a New York Times story which started, "Gimme that on-line religion." I recalled that earlier in the week I'd heard about a brand-new on-line confessor program. Well, shucks. You don't have to hit me on the head.

All you hacker types who whine
You spend too much time on-line
To connect with the Divine, well,
There's some software you should see.

It'll only function in those
Systems not in corporate limbos:
Pearly Gates for Stained-Glass Windows --
Boot up God on your P.C.

Gimme that on-line religion,
Gimme that on-line religion,
Gimme that on-line religion,
It's God, Revision 3.

It was Cardinal O'Connor
Out defending Catholic honor,
But I wish that he'd been on our
Service, not on Prodigy.


Those with sexual repression
Now can e-mail their confession,
Get absolved in that same session,
And do penance virtually.


Every good and pious hacker
Goes to Heaven -- every slacker
Is an unarmored attacker
In the beta-test Doom 3.


If you're an Amiga boaster,
Stick the Eucharist in the Toaster,
Pull it out, use as a coaster,
Or send in to Fish PD.


Though they often try to hide us,
We all have Intel inside us,
But should Pentium divide us,
Well, that's close enough for them.


There are lurkers in the Usenet
Who have not heard the Good News yet,
When I think of them, I do sweat,
Each one's a potential troll.


There's a World Wide Web of pages,
That's grown up in several stages,
It may not be Rock of Ages,
But it's good ol' Rock and Roll.

(heavy-metal band)
Gimme that On-Line Religion,
Gimme that On-Line Religion,
Gimme that On-Line Religion,
It's God, and God is ME!

("What the heck was that?"
"I have not a clue....")

Point and click on your Mosaic,
Yes, it surely is prosaic,
Tour the Vatican or Passaic,
In the heart of New Jersey.

Phoning Down to New Jersey, me boys,
Phoning Down to New Jersey...

Keeping track of those addresses
Is the toughest of life's messes,
And one thing I must confess is,
URL-bound, wait and see.


Though the 'Net still coughs and wheezes,
There's so much out there to please us,
Give your mouse over to Jesus,
Get to Heaven -- FTP!

(chorus, twice with big finish)

Extra Verses

A lot of these refer to defunct technologies, and should bring a nostalgic tear to your eye,
except in the case of Microsoft's
Bob, which should cross your eyes remembering it --
a system interface on top of the Windows interface, which runs on top of MS-DOS,
which runs on top of the actual machine code -- and the Packard-Bell Service Department,
which should induce nearly terminal heartburn.

If your eyes are getting starry
For the Jaguar from Atari,
It's just fast Nintendo -- sorry,
Do the math, you're number three.

The accountants all look stricken,
Microsoft has purchased Quicken,
Now the manual will thicken
By at least an inch or three.

Well, the Macintosh Performa
Makes disgruntled users warmer,
They bought first, and now they form a
Line to upgrade -- they're RISC-free.

Packard Bell does not deserve us,
All us owners are too nervous
To spend weeks on hold with Service
And invoke the warranty.

IBM will OS/Warp us,
But we'll need a habeas corpus
To find any need or purpose
For non-morons owning "Bob."

CompuServe has got in messes
With numerical addresses,
And my memory regresses --
Is that Sysop, Friend, or ME?

GEnie's front end is Aladdin,
As I couch my terms, a bad 'un,
Half the menu stuff is paddin'
And the rest, upholstery.
(I said I was couching my terms.)

A.O.L. is kinda spiffy,
But the interface is iffy,
And they don't have that much Sci-Fi (in this case, pronounced "skiffy"),
And they're nothing close to free.

Those with Beemers in their garages
Are the Prodigy old codgers,
It's an on-line Mister Rogers
For the average dense yuppie.

And the Infobahn is humming,
All our fingertips are drumming,
As new verses start a-coming,
Why not send 'em on to me?

Use computers (option: heaven);
Please post no more than eleven,
I'm T-dot-Smith One-Two-Seven
At GEnie Geis Com -- WHEEE!

(That's, a long-defunct address. DO NOT USE IT.)

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