An ode by Sean P. O. MacCath-Moran

Ever underrated, that smallest unit,
Measuring but one eighth the breadth of a byte,
That minimalist fraction of data,
It is the Bit we should honor outright.
But what substance is a Bit made of?
What matter could ever compose its core?
Can you stamp it or eat it like a bug?
Can you buy them in six packs from the store?

The solitary Bit has few virtues:
It is on or off; It is true or false;
It is so rarely extraordinary;
So much like single microbials.

Bits must always be paired with other Bits
For their full potential to be realized.
They only partner in powers of two
And they only move when serialized.

Deficient to most tasks as a loner,
Bits get er' done with a mob of their peers.
They detail the lives and times of heroes,
Or tell a tale of eight tiny reindeers.

Bits were not always able to collate.
In dark ages before DOS and UNIX,
Even a group of a thousand was great,
But larger assemblies need better tricks.

Modern technicians organize billions,
Lined up one after another in rows,
Sometimes their numbers reach up to trillions,
And even terabytes are coaxed to show!

Ah, the Bit, so small, so insignificant,
so non-corporeal, so powerful.
Where would we be without you and your kin
in the air and keeping our circuits full?