rej (01/06/83)
The Holiday Party is an annual event in the Cornell Computer Science
Department. One of its important features is the Holiday Show, designed
by students to insult faculty and amuse the audience. The 1982 Holiday
Show was a takeoff on Alice in Wonderland. I thought that many of the
poems were very well done and would be of interest to computer types,
so I abstracted them from the script and have included them here, along
with a bit of explanation. The authors (who wish to remain anonymous)
are C.S. grad students.
Edsger Dykstra is highly regarded by many faculty members.
"You are old, Father Edsger," the young man said,
"All your papers these days look the same;
Those EWD's would be better unread --
Do these facts never fill you with shame?"
"In my youth," Father Edsger replied to his son,
"I wrote wonderful papers galore;
But the great reputation I found that I'd won,
Made it pointless to think any more."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And make errors few people could bear;
You complain about everyone's English but yours --
Do you really think this is quite fair?"
"I make lots of mistakes," Father Edsger declared,
"But my stature these days is so great
That no critic can hurt me -- I've got them all scared,
And to stop me it's now far too late."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your programs don't run,
And there isn't one language you like;
Yet of useful suggestions for help you have none --
Have you thought about taking a hike?"
"Since I never write programs," his father replied,
"Every language looks equally bad;
Yet the people keep paying to read all my books
And don't realize that they've been had."
"You are old," said the youth, "and I'm told by my peers
That your lectures bore people to death.
Yet you talk at one hundred conventions per year --
Don't you think that you should save your breath?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"
The Duchess is trying to fix a Vax.
Speak roughly to your little Vax,
And boot it when it crashes;
It knows that one cannot relax
Because the paging thrashes!
(Chorus) Wow! Wow! Wow!
I speak severely to my Vax,
And boot it when it crashes;
In spite of all my favorite hacks,
My jobs it always trashes!
(Chorus) Wow! Wow! Wow!
The faculty eat lunche in the Statler Club. It is considered
an honor for a student to be invited. Generally one's first
invitation is after a successful thesis defense.
The students thronged about the quad
Their heads were held up high.
They'd all signed up for 414
Although it made them cry.
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of July.
The profs were looking quite perturbed
Because they thought the crowd
Should go home in the summer months
To make their parents proud.
"If we could run Cornell," they said,
"It wouldn't be allowed."
Bengt Aspvall and Bob Constable
Were looking very sad.
They wept like anything to see
The mob of undergrads.
"If only they would go away,"
They said, "We would be glad."
"If every prof in every course
Flunked them for half a year;
Do you suppose," Bengt Aspvall said,
"That we'd be in the clear?"
"I doubt it," said Bob Constable,
And shed a bitter tear.
"Oh, TA's come and lunch with us,"
Bengt Aspvall did entreat.
"We're going to the Statler Club --
You'll think it's really neat.
Just meet us there in half an hour;
We'll save you all a seat."
The fifth-year students shook their heads,
For they had work to do.
And they knew that the Statler Club
Was serving Irish stew.
"We tried it once," they told their friends,
"The food there tastes like glue."
But other students said "We'll go!"
And headed for the door.
And thick and fast they came at last
And more and more and more.
And by the time that they were done
They'd emptied the third floor.
But when they met, down at the Club,
Bob Constable did say,
"I hope you know this won't be cheap:
The food upon your tray
Will cost you twenty-seven bucks --
Are you prepared to pay?"
"Good Heavens, no!" the students cried.
(Their stomachs did a flip.)
"We haven't any credit cards;
We lost our money clip!
Besides, on our low salaries
We couldn't pay the tip."
"I weep for you," Bengt Aspvall said,
"I deeply sympathize."
And as he spoke he paid his tab
And bid them all goodbyes.
The students groaned and tore their hair
And tears poured from their eyes.
The students all were broke, but still
They had to pay their debt.
The Statler wouldn't take their checks.
(The students were upset.)
And though this happened late last month
They may be down there yet.
This has promise, but is too short.
'Twas Unix, and the FTP's
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the pid's,
And the Franz Lisps outgrabe.
The following two bits of doggerel appear in a scene in
which a thesis is being defended. They are entered as
evidence, the first in favor of the thesis, the second
opposed. PRL (Program Refinement Logic) is a system at
Cornell that converts proofs into programs.
One:
The programmer he wrote some code
Correct? He could not say.
The verifier took that code
And proved it worked okay.
Two:
They told me you had proven it
About a month before.
The proof was valid, more or less
But rather less than more.
He sent them word that we would try
To pass where they had failed
And after we were done, to them
The new proof would be mailed.
My notion was to start again
Ignoring all they'd done
We quickly turned it into code
To see if it would run.
When they discovered our results
Their hair began to curl
Instead of understanding it
We'd run the thing through PRL.
Don't tell a soul about all this
For it must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest
Between yourself and me.