In case you don't know the original, it's here.
Microsoft Windows, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Microsoft loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Mirosoft sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.
Mirosoft mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Mirosoft loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Mirosoft cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.
Mirosoft scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Mirosoft thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Mirosoft Windows, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Mirosoft coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.