Subscribe: by Email | in Reader

Telnet Song -- Guy L Steele, Jr

       
(Poem #1419) Telnet Song
 There is a program called TELNET to get to another CPU.
 Control up-arrow is the escape; it's doubled to send it through,
 and "quit" is control up-arrow Q.

 A hacker once used TELNET to get to another CPU.
 He knew he could quit whenever he wanted to: all he had to do was type
 control up-arrow Q.

 Instead the hacker used TEL-NET to get to another CPU.
 He knew he could quit whenever he wanted to: all he had to do was type
 control up-arrow [at i-th time, repeat 2^i times]
 Q.
 [repeat verse n times; the choice of n is free]

 The hacker soon got bored with this, and wanted to get back.
 He sighed, and started the exponential popping of the stack:

 The hacked flushed the TEL-NET to the most distant CPU:
 He couldn't log out until he had killed them all,
 counting up powers of two: he typed
 control up-arrow [at i-th time, repeat 2^(n-i+1) times]
 Q. [repeat n times]

 Whew!

 The hacker's eyes were bloodshot; his fingers, black and blue;
 He wanted to log out and and go home to bed, and sleep for a day or two.
 He typed L O G O U T ... carriage return ...

 The hacker was on a network with only twenty CPU's.
 But if he had telnetted to them all,
 he would not yet be through with typing
 control up-arrow [repeat 7 times]
 Q!
-- Guy L Steele, Jr
Note: This was written after an article by Donald E. Knuth, titled "The
Complexity of Songs":
    D.E. Knuth, 'The Complexity of Songs', Communications of the ACM 27 (4)
    pp. 345--348, April, 1984 (repetitions indicated; the song is only sung
    correctly if the appropriate number of repetitions is used)
    Some comments: Strictly speaking, the song is not part of the article;
    it was appended afterwards. The composer and lyricist is Guy L. Steele,
    Jr. The melody has a certain haunting quality that is quite hard to
    convey in ASCII text. I don't know whether it has ever been played. The
    composer has email, so it shouldn't be too hard to find out.
        -- http://www.poppyfields.net/filks/00222.html

  (Sitaram points out that that last bit is a dig at Knuth's refusal to use
  email. :))

  2^i is 2*2..*2 [i times], e.g. 2^5 = 2*2*2*2*2 = 32

  I've explained the maths behind the song in a postscript (it gets long)

Two of the more delightful aspects of hacker culture [see links] are an
abundant and enthusiastic creativity, and a strong sense of play.
Unsurprisingly, these have combined to produce a large body of verse,
ranging from esoteric in-jokes to catchy and accessible song parodies, and
even some genuine "poetry". There is a marked, qualitative difference from
poems like yesterday's, though - this is not a case of poets embracing the
brave new world, but rather the denizens of that world embracing verse, a
look from the inside rather than from the outside. (There is a significant
overlap with science fiction fandom's filk music, not least because so many
fans are hackers and vice versa, but the two are nonetheless different
genres).

Today's song is definitely one of the classics of the genre, and not just
for its distinguished (if you'll forgive the understatement) authors -
Kunth's notion of song complexity has an irresistible combination of
quirkiness and serious academic value, and Steele's song highlights the
fun factor while providing a good intuitive grasp of Knuth's point. And
while the verse itself isn't as clever as some of the others out there, it
has a nicely hypnotic rhythm that fits the "trapped in an exponential loop"
nature of the song.

martin

[Links]

"Hacker" is used throughout in the original sense of the word - see
http://www.catb.org/~esr/jargon/html/H/hacker.html

[broken link] http://www.cs.sunysb.edu/~algorith/lectures-good/node2.html for some idea of
what is meant by "the complexity of songs".

[broken link] http://groups.google.com/groups?selm=ANDERS.90Jun7131354%40mago.uio.no lists
chords for the song

Biography of Steele:
  [broken link] http://www.sls.csail.mit.edu/~hurley/guysteele.html
and of Knuth:
  http://www-gap.dcs.st-and.ac.uk/~history/Mathematicians/Knuth.html

The Jargon Files:
  http://www.catb.org/~esr/jargon/

And a great collection of computer-related songs:
  http://www.poppyfields.net/filks/fullindex.html

[PostScript]

A little digression into mathematics:

  There is a program called TELNET to get to another CPU.
  Control up-arrow is the escape; it's doubled to send it through,

An 'escape' is a character that sends the *next* character not to the
current session but to the one below it in the stack. So, say our intrepid
hacker logged in to machine A, telnetted to B, and from B telnetted to C

His stack now looks like this: [hacker -> C -> B -> A]. Anything he types
gets executed by machine C. Now supposing he wants to send a keystroke to
machine B instead? What he needs to do is to escape the keystroke. Escape,
here, is control-up arrow, so to type 'HELLO' on machine B, he needs to
type:
control-uparrow H control-uparrow E control-uparrow L control-uparrow
L control-uparrow O

or, using ^| as a shorthand for the control-up arrow key sequence,

^| H ^| E ^| L ^| L ^| O

for a total of 15 keystrokes (or 10 if you count ctrl-up arrow as one
keystroke even though it involves two physical keys).

Now supposing he wanted to send something to machine A? If he types ^|, the
keystrokes get sent to B - what he wants to do is type ^| on machine B, so
that the next character goes to machine A. But how does he type a ^| on B?
The song tells us that:
 Control up-arrow is the escape; __it's doubled to send it through,__

so we type ^|^| to send a ^| to machine B. So to send, say, an "X" to
machine A, we need to type ^|^|X, right? Nope - because the ^|^| sends a ^|
to machine B, and then the X goes to *machine C*, the machine at the top of
the stack. To send the X to machine A, we need to send a ^|X to machine B.
And to do that, we need to send a ^|^| to C (which sends a ^| to B), and
then a ^|X to C (which sends an X to B), at which point we'll have sent a
^|X to B, which duly sends the X to A.

By this point, it should be clear how fast the number of keystrokes can blow
up as we add even one more machine to the stack. So let's go ahead and
complete the demonstration by logging out of A.

        Press  C   B   A
          ^|  ^|               C has a ^|, will pass the next key to B
          ^|      ^|           B has a ^|, will pass its next key to A
          ^|  ^|  ^|           C has a ^|, will pass the next key to B
          ^|Q         ^|Q      the ^|Q gets passed to C which passes it to B
                               which passes it to A which logs out

Two telnet sessions (A->B and B->A), and a total of 4 (2^2) control-up arrows
before the Q, as Steele said. Logging out of four machines is left as an
exercise :)

(Note that I assume control-uparrow-Q is a single keystroke, rather than a
control-uparrow followed by a Q, otherwise the song doesn't work)

martin

Electronically Yours -- Gerald Jonas

Guest poem sent in by Leslie Turek
(Poem #1418) Electronically Yours
    Baud: the rate of speed at which information is
    sent between two computer devices,
    for example, modems.

 From 1200 plus, our baud
 declined. At under 300, a blank.
 EXIT. Or so I thought. But bits
 of you <alluring syllables, the
 burnt-in codes of half-unearned
 caresses "lost" when power died>
 were saved, it seems, to memory's
 soft disk. I found a file called
 HIDDEN FILES. Delete <Y/N>?
-- Gerald Jonas
Today I ran across this poem, which I had cut out of a
magazine years ago (I don't remember which magazine,
possibly The New Yorker)).

I liked the way the poet used modern (at least at that date)
computer terminology and images to describe the
fragmentary memories that remain after a relationship
has died.

I Googled for Gerald Jonas, and found references to a
few science fiction stories and one other poem (Imaginary
Numbers in a Real Garden), but no reference to this particular
one.

http://isfdb.tamu.edu/cgi-bin/ea.cgi?Gerald_Jonas

I also found reference to a poetry reading in 2001 which
gave this mini-bio:

Gerald Jonas is a regular reviewer of science fiction for the New York
Times, the author of six nonfiction books and a screenwriter of nationally
televised documentaries. He worked at The New Yorker from 1963-1993.

[broken link] http://www.mediarelations.ksu.edu/WEB/News/InView/100401writer.html

Leslie Turek

[Martin adds]

While this is an interesting poem, it hasn't dated too well - the
combination of the modern theme and the fast-obsolete and
already-forgotten jargon sets up a dissonance that detracts from the
imagery of the poem - particularly jarring was the reference to "soft
disks".

It still fascinates me, though, to see the way in which poets (and alongside
them, writers of science fiction, particularly cyberpunk) have evoked poetry
from the rising tide of new phenomena, idioms and metaphors that accompany
the information revolution. This week, I'll be running a series of such
poems - as usual, feel free to chime in on the theme.

martin

At the last watch -- Rabindranath Tagore

Guest poem sent in by Monica Bathija
(Poem #1417) At the last watch
 Pity, in place of love,
      That pettiest of gifts,
 Is but a sugar-coating over neglect.
      Any passerby can make a gift of it
          To a street beggar,
 Only to forget the moment the first corner is turned.
          I had not hoped for anything more that day.

 You left during the last watch of night.
      I had hoped you would say goodbye,
           Just say 'Adieu' before going away,
      What you had said another day,
               What I shall never hear again.
                  In their place, just that one word,
 Bound by the thin fabric of a little compassion
            Would even that have been too much for you to bear?

            When I first awoke from sleep
                     My heart fluttered with fear
              Lest the time had been over.
                I rushed out of bed.
        The distant church clock chimed half past twelve
                I sat waiting near the door of my room
                    Resting my head against it,
      Facing the porch through which you would come out.

 Even that tiniest of chances
    Was snatched away by fate from hapless me;
    I fell asleep
         Shortly before you left.
 Perhaps you cast a sidelong glance
             At my reclining body
      Like a broken boat left high and dry.
    Perhaps you walked away with care
              Lest you wake me up.
    Awaking with a start I knew at once
              That my vigil had been wasted
    I realised, what was to go went away in a moment,
         What was to stay behind stayed on
              For all time.

 Silence everywhere
    Like that of a birds' nest bereft of birds
         On the bough of a songless tree.
 With the lifeless light of the waning moon was now blended
         The pallor of dawn
    Spreading itself over the greyness of my empty life.
                   I walked towards your bedroom
                                      For no reason.
                       Outside the door
                Burnt a smoky lantern covered with soot,
             The porch smelt of the smouldering wick.
 Over the abandoned bed the flaps of the rolled-up mosquito-net
                     Fluttered a little in the breeze.
              Seen in the sky outside through the window
                          Was the morning star,
                     Witness of all sleepless people
                          Bereft of hope.

 Suddenly I found you had left behind by mistake
 Your gold-mounted ivory walking stick.
        If there were time, I thought,
        You might come back from the station to look for it,
        But not because
    You had not seen me before going away.
-- Rabindranath Tagore
           23 May 1936

I recently went to Calcutta and Santiniketan, one of the reasons for the
visit being Tagore. I found this poem in a volume called Syamali, which is
also the name of one of the houses in which the poet lived in Santiniketan.

Through and through Tagore. Simple and beautiful, I love the way it
effortlessly evokes imagery. And of course, on an evening in a tourist
lodge, it touched just the right chord. But that's what poetry is for,
isn't it?

Monica

Cinderella -- Roald Dahl

Guest poem sent in by Ajit Narayanan
(Poem #1416) Cinderella
 I guess you think you know this story.
 You don't. The real one's much more gory.
 The phoney one, the one you know,
 Was cooked up years and years ago,
 And made to sound all soft and sappy
 just to keep the children happy.
 Mind you, they got the first bit right,
 The bit where, in the dead of night,
 The Ugly Sisters, jewels and all,
 Departed for the Palace Ball,
 While darling little Cinderella
 Was locked up in a slimy cellar,
 Where rats who wanted things to eat,
 Began to nibble at her feet.

 She bellowed 'Help!' and 'Let me out!
 The Magic Fairy heard her shout.
 Appearing in a blaze of light,
 She said: 'My dear, are you all right?'
 'All right?' cried Cindy .'Can't you see
 'I feel as rotten as can be!'
 She beat her fist against the wall,
 And shouted, 'Get me to the Ball!
 'There is a Disco at the Palace!
 'The rest have gone and 1 am jalous!
 'I want a dress! I want a coach!
 'And earrings and a diamond brooch!
 'And silver slippers, two of those!
 'And lovely nylon panty hose!
 'Done up like that I'll guarantee
 'The handsome Prince will fall for me!'
 The Fairy said, 'Hang on a tick.'
 She gave her wand a mighty flick
 And quickly, in no time at all,
 Cindy was at the Palace Ball!

 It made the Ugly Sisters wince
 To see her dancing with the Prince.
 She held him very tight and pressed
 herself against his manly chest.
 The Prince himself was turned to pulp,
 All he could do was gasp and gulp.
 Then midnight struck. She shouted,'Heck!
 Ive got to run to save my neck!'
 The Prince cried, 'No! Alas! Alack!'
 He grabbed her dress to hold her back.
 As Cindy shouted, 'Let me go!'
 The dress was ripped from head to toe.

 She ran out in her underwear,
 And lost one slipper on the stair.
 The Prince was on it like a dart,
 He pressed it to his pounding heart,
 'The girl this slipper fits,' he cried,
 'Tomorrow morn shall be my bride!
 I'll visit every house in town
 'Until I've tracked the maiden down!'
 Then rather carelessly, I fear,
 He placed it on a crate of beer.

 At once, one of the Ugly Sisters,
 (The one whose face was blotched with blisters)
 Sneaked up and grabbed the dainty shoe,
 And quickly flushed it down the loo.
 Then in its place she calmly put
 The slipper from her own left foot.
 Ah ha, you see, the plot grows thicker,
 And Cindy's luck starts looking sicker.

 Next day, the Prince went charging down
 To knock on all the doors in town.
 In every house, the tension grew.
 Who was the owner of the shoe?
 The shoe was long and very wide.
 (A normal foot got lost inside.)
 Also it smelled a wee bit icky.
 (The owner's feet were hot and sticky.)
 Thousands of eager people came
 To try it on, but all in vain.
 Now came the Ugly Sisters' go.
 One tried it on. The Prince screamed, 'No!'
 But she screamed, 'Yes! It fits! Whoopee!
 'So now you've got to marry me!'
 The Prince went white from ear to ear.
 He muttered, 'Let me out of here.'
 'Oh no you don't! You made a vow!
 'There's no way you can back out now!'
 'Off with her head!'The Prince roared back.
 They chopped it off with one big whack.
 This pleased the Prince. He smiled and said,
 'She's prettier without her head.'
 Then up came Sister Number Two,
 Who yelled, 'Now I will try the shoe!'
 'Try this instead!' the Prince yelled back.
 He swung his trusty sword and smack
 Her head went crashing to the ground.
 It bounced a bit and rolled around.
 In the kitchen, peeling spuds,
 Cinderella heard the thuds
 Of bouncing heads upon the floor,
 And poked her own head round the door.
 'What's all the racket? 'Cindy cried.
 'Mind your own bizz,' the Prince replied.
 Poor Cindy's heart was torn to shreds.
 My Prince! she thought. He chops off heads!
 How could I marry anyone
 Who does that sort of thing for fun?

 The Prince cried, 'Who's this dirty slut?
 'Off with her nut! Off with her nut!'
 Just then, all in a blaze of light,
 The Magic Fairy hove in sight,
 Her Magic Wand went swoosh and swish!
 'Cindy! 'she cried, 'come make a wish!
 'Wish anything and have no doubt
 'That I will make it come about!'
 Cindy answered, 'Oh kind Fairy,
 'This time I shall be more wary.
 'No more Princes, no more money.
 'I have had my taste of honey.
 I'm wishing for a decent man.
 'They're hard to find. D'you think you can?'
 Within a minute, Cinderella
 Was married to a lovely feller,
 A simple jam maker by trade,
 Who sold good home-made marmalade.
 Their house was filled with smiles and laughter
 And they were happy ever after.
-- Roald Dahl
There is a certain charm to retellings of old stories that defies analysis.
One gets a certain naughty thrill from reading the works of Guy Carryl, say,
or Roald Dahl's 'Revolting Rhymes' from which the above gem is taken. I
suppose these poems are all the more funny because they're stories which are
familiar, _sacred_ even, and a sudden change in tenor takes one's breath
away!

Roald Dahl is, of course, a master at doing this. Many of his stories for
adults have that sudden and almost sacreligious twist, and his stories for
children (which I will always rate as the better of his works) tick because
of the clever turns that he gives to those old platitudes, those old
fairytales and those nursery rhymes, which children of a certain age grow to
despise with the contempt that comes with familiarity, and which he sends up
with unfailing precision and skill.

More of Dahl's 'Revolting Rhymes' at:
[broken link] http://www.the-artery.co.uk/words/0024.php

More of Dahl at:
http://oldpoetry.com/authors/Roald%20Dahl

Guy Carryl at:
Poem #273 - How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted
Poem #94 -  The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet
Poem #137 - The Sycophantic Fox and the Gullible Raven
and Gutenburg ('Fables for the Frivolous',
http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/cgi-bin/sdb/t9.cgi?
entry=6438&full=yes&ftpsite=http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/ ).

- Ajit Q.

Some other fairy-tale retellings on Minstrels:

Poem #242: The Pied Piper of Hamelin
Poem #961: The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'
Poem #978: Cinderella

Gone Fishing -- Chris Rea

Guest poem sent in by G. Balakrishnan
(Poem #1415) Gone Fishing
 I'm going fishing
 I got me a line
 Nothing I do is gonna make a difference
 So I'm taking my time

 And you ain't never gonna be happy
 Anyhow, anyway
 So, I'm going fishing
 And I'm going today

 I'm going fishing
 Sounds crazy I know
 I know nothing about fishing
 But just watch me go

 And when my time has come
 I will look back and see
 Peace on the shoreline
 That could have been me

 You can waste a whole lifetime
 Trying to be
 What you think is expected of you
 But you'll never be free
 May as well go fishing
-- Chris Rea
Chris Rea, unfortunately is not too popular, at least in the circles I have
moved around in.  However I really feel that he is one incredible song writer.

'Gone Fishing' somehow for me conveys a sense of total freedom. It's a
different sort of feeling when you just let yourself go at something especially
if you have never done it before and know nothing about it. In addition the
song also has this subtle carefree attitude towards a lot of mundane things we
end up doing day in and day out without really ever stopping and looking at
them objectively.

Govind

Chris Rea website:
  [broken link] http://www.helsinki.fi/~wikgren/chrisrea.html