One of Ray's main responsibilities was to write installation documents, and a current project at the time this poem was written was the "Snakes" project: a series of hot new computers. Ray initiated a project that goes on to this day: a documentation matrix that informed people in HP divisons around the world what manuals we were writing, their page counts, part numbers, binding styles, etc. Ray's fondest dream was that our department would get at least one document converted from a paper form to an on-line form before he retired. We made it. Barely.
This poem was in honor of Ray when he retired.
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Under a spreading chestnut tree, The village wordsmith stands, Ray's his name; he smiths his words With large and sinewy hands, And the list of books he's worked upon Continually expands.
His hair's no longer like it was--
Though it seems a little odd at times,
When the first of every month rolls 'round,
And when Ray represented us,
And when attending meetings here,
One thing we will not miss, I think,
But now, right in the prime of life,
We'll miss you, Ray, and when you leave, |