In rec.music.filk Captain Infinity
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My father was a boorish troll, on the backways of the net
His posts were crude, and his language rude, and his rants devoid of threat
But few folk cared to peruse his tripe, the plonks came fast and thick
And the pointless raving of a spineless craven was dismissed as a boring trick
So plonked he was and ignored because they had better things to do
But I was inclined to have half a mind, and to raise the torch anew
My grandpa gave me trolling tips, from a long forgotten day
When the net was young, and the filksongs sung, and the master trolls held sway
But September came around, he said, the newbies flooded in
And the pointed posts of that early host were drowned in the general din
And neither did the people rise to their finely crafted bait
So the trolls withdrew and determined to let the next generation prate
My father had no luck, it seemed, for no one gave a damn
He tried his best as a usenet pest, but was less annoying than spam
He watched the flamers turn their wrath against "Make Money Fast"
And his envy soared as he was ignored as a relic of the past
So late he sat into the night, and insulted random men
But nought could he gain after all his pain but a laugh every now and then
As I prepared to take my place, and to learn the family trade
So blithe and gay did I join the fray, so young and so unafraid
And soon strode forth Infinity, for thus was I yclept
And my father cried in a wave of pride, and I think even grandpa wept
But young I was, and green I was, with my powers as yet untried
And oft was I burnt before I learnt how to don an asbestos hide
Then usenet lay beneath my hand, the groups were ripe to pluck
And I ventured in with a thickened skin, and I thought I'd try my luck
I dropped in posts like loaded hooks, with several subtle jibes
Then I smiled in glee at the summoned spree of insults and diatribes
But my greatest coups were the crosspost trolls, the groups I drove to war
For the sheep will bleat once their blood is heated, with no clue what they're fighting for
And I'll ever be a boor, I'll ever be a net troll
The cascades and the flames are music to my soul
And when my son is grown, and should he be a jerk
I'll get him on the net, to carry on my work