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.

published June 1, 2015