Like Christ it let itself be led to the gallows,

And then dead, swathed in robes all pure and holy,

It listened to the mourning of its fellows,

Lay there quiet, seemingly dead, boldly


Dark grey not unlike the colour of its kin,

It pretended that it had passed on,

Inciting mourning that carried on the wind,

I thought it was quite, quite gone.


Almost crucified, its box waiting to receive its corpse,

Hands poised over phones to call the coroner


and,


It gasps, chokes, rising from its shroud;

My modem had risen from the dead.