"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
	"All your papers these days look the same;
Those William's would be better unread --
	Do these facts never fill you with shame?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
	"I wrote wonderful papers galore;
But the great reputation I found that I'd won,
	Made it pointless to think any more."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your programs don't run,
	And there isn't one language you like;
Yet of useful suggestions for help you have none --
	Have you thought about taking a hike?"

"Since I never write programs," his father replied,
	"Every language looks equally bad;
Yet the people keep paying to read all my books
	And don't realize that they have been had."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
	And make errors few people could bear;
You complain about everyone's English but yours --
	Do you really think this is quite fair?"

"I make lots of mistakes," Father William declared,
	"But my stature these days is so great
That no critic can hurt me -- I've got them all scared,
	And to stop me it's now far too late."

"You are old," said the youth, "and I'm told by my peers
	That your lectures bore people to death.
Yet you talk at one hundred conventions per year --
	Don't you think that you should save your breath?"

"I have answered three questions and that is enough,"
	Said his father, "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
	Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"