Listen here two thousand nineteen,
I’m sitting here thinking, its time for a rhyme.
I’m doing my updates, clearing my spam,
Hoping twenty twenty, doesn’t turn me to ham.
Listen up nineteen, your glad to be gone,
a hundred years old, I’ll not await your return.
You had a big one, nineteen’yrs ago,
a decade of precept, decimal’s since sold.
XIX’s was clever, the Romans henced mould,
A numbering system, with the bases of bold.
Base three, base five, who’s glad to be alive,
Base Ten, Base Fifty, why stop there miffize.
Base hundred and thousand, to keep you beware.
Bases were something for training our ear.
So nkow what your’s base, d’ nkow what you’d think,
When no ones looking for a base nineteen fink.
Then the accountants, engineers as well,
managed to stuff it, just for their thrill.
No natural numbers, no basic math,
people’ve lied about tieing its wrath.
The’ve stolen the good ones, used on degrees,
sieze the clock, and dumbed down its please.
Three hundred, you are not.
Leave it to war, leave nineteen to rot.
For nineteen to work, a toe needs the chop.
A finger or digit, must go to a slot.
So those that’ve lost any parts this year,
I hope you’ve recovered, remembering nineteen dears.
By Blaimn Blabben