A first draft, years back, that I never finished:

The bytes go creeping by, Eudora
The net has broken down again.
I'll get my mail today, Eudora,
But I'll be damned if I know when

        For the mail comes in as slowly now,
        As when I was on AOL.
        But with the mail that's coming in now
        I think it may be just as well.

The spam comes pouring in, Eudora;
A never-ending siren's song.
If all of it were true, Eudora,
I'd have a Thing 15 miles long.

        They sell you stocks and bonds and girls,
        And boys, and condos by the sea.
        I don't know where they got my address,
        But like some old drunk, they just won't leave me be.

Peter