This is the reply to this letter.
Dear Times New Roman,
The dust settles on your,
Years of dandruff and carcasses
of small dead insects fall from
your dusty, miserable ceiling.
When I first met you, your
grace and charm was like a
regal procession through the
streets of a regency Spa town
Within that Spa town reside residents who
Give their children
names like, Tarquin
and Esmeralda and Priscilla, watched
your stiff and uniform, movements
as you grandly made us all realise
you were in fact,
Every Friday your ‘boil-in-the-bag’ cod,
Every Tuesday you watch re-runs of
with a small tin of
Boiled sweets on the right hand
and a mug of Horlicks on the left.
Every single book in your house has
been catalogued and dusted every Wednesday
as you work through the letters of the alphabet
giving new meanings to words
that have already been discovered,
just because the original meanings
might not necessarily be exacting
to the modern world of today.
But you’re not modern. You’re old.
And not in that cool way that
Space Hoppers and chopper bikes are cool.
You’re. Not. Cool.
You try to be,
Oh you tried.
You reinvented yourself as
Trebuchet. Positioning yourself
Your former self.
The sad thing is that your
Plastic surgery addiction hasn’t helped
You just look like some sort of demented elf.
You need help.
Stop ringing me,
Stop writing me.
Please piss off and stop
Telling Word to default to you
When it doesn’t know what else
To use. He’s older than you
And losing his marbles,
Stop taking advantage of
Such an old program.
Don’t try to start that whole
‘It was so much better in Word 97’
Line because it is not 1997 anymore.
Its 2016. You need to stop living
On the ground and
get with the in-cloud.
I’ve written a letter to my solicitor.
Guess what font I’m using?