It’s at their end. . .
you victim, friend.
It’s on their end—
make no amends. . .their end.
Need a tech-support man: your “friend”
is from the Hindustan; he’ll send
useless hints; be apprised: dead end.
He’ll never look past his script—try again.

Got no picture on TV?
Dish/cable company.
Desperately in need of a sage’s hand,
you get feckless “Dan.”

Lost Web when roamin’? Ineptness domain.
Appalling swindlers cause you pain.
Galling grifters can’t explain
waiting on their bumbling reign.

There’s danger of a Web gone down;
right isn’t their way, uh-uh!
Scheme teams give bogus, old lines,
while up big they mess, oh yeah.

Site-feed breaks, site-feed brakes. . .
their mistakes; mistakes they make always.
You ain’t done wrong; every time,
their mistake. These trolls, not you, the aholes.

These pests make a mess.
These pests always mess up?
Of course, the answer’s “yes!”

Their screwups are galling us;
their screwups appalling us.
“Right” isn’t in their syllabus.

These swindlers are doling a con;
they’re putzes, stooge spawn.
Our time they waste, a disgraceful parody
of a service, one and all.
Their tech-support is goons, airheads, and nitwits.
Companies always are the ones that fuck up,
and then they tell you that it’s your fault.
In fact, every time you’re the one in the right.

Faultless, you; still they bill you.
With bullshit they will fill you.

“Come on, baby, take a chance with us,
Come on, baby, you can sure trust us,”
Are the lines they lay on you, and then they bust
their word with poor service that breeds disgust.

Spewin’ to you crocks
of doo-doo plus.
Spewin’ to you crocks. . . .

Come on, fix it.
Bit rill’s nil, nil, nil!

It’s at their end. . .
boobs fail again.
Shit is their end—
make no amends. . .their end.
They hurt you with TV
and Web pages you won’t see.
Their end, the latency, down time;
their end ain’t right, yours is just fine.

Fix at their end.