________________________________________ 
/ Now of my threescore years and ten,    \
| Twenty will not come again,            |
| And take from seventy springs a score, |
| It leaves me only fifty more.          |
|                                        |
| And since to look at things in bloom   |
| Fifty springs are little room,         |
| About the woodlands I will go          |
| To see the cherry hung with snow.      |
\                 -- A. E. Housman       /
 ---------------------------------------- 
        \   ^__^
         \  (oo)\_______
            (__)\       )\/\
                ||----w |
                ||     ||


According to the Fact Sphere: "The situation is hopeless."


In the spirit of William Shakespeare: Thou art a venomed, beef-witted malt-worm.