I think that I shall never max
The depth and scope of mighty Emacs.
A lisp machine in soft disguise,
With buffers nested like Matryoshka's lies.
It edits text, it reads your mail,
It plays old Snake without fail.
A shell, a game, a planner too–
There's nothing it was not built to do.
Its keystrokes form a rite, arcane:
Ctrl-Meta-Shift-Tilde-Bane.
Yet once the fingers learn the flow,
Productivity will grow and grow.
The pinky strain, the endless hacks–
They fade with elisp battle tracks.
You twist the core to suit your brain,
And Emacs morphs without disdain.
A kitchen sink? A universe!
Where code and prose and life converse.
So scoff not at this ageéd beast–
It's still the hacker's power feast.