Oh dear, dear F1,
You’re oh so keen to jump the gun.
The slightest knock, and up you pop,
Just barging past and to the top,
And begging to be asked a question,
Or to make a cool suggestion –
Anything to lend a cyber hand.
Your happiness is my command,
And, oh, you’ll never understand,
F1, old son,
You simply can’t !
I want Escape ! I want F2 !
I’m sorry, son, but get it through your key:
If help I need, it won’t be you, you see.
It’s never you.