(to the tune of Gilligan’s Island)

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, Of the doom that is our fate.
That started when programmers used, Two digits for a date.

Main memory was smaller then; Hard disks were smaller, too.
“Four digits are extravagant, So let’s get by with two.

 “This works through 1999,” The programmers did say.
“Unless we rewrite before that, It all will go away.

But Management had not a clue: “It works fine now, you bet!
A rewrite is a straight expense; We won’t do it just yet.
We won’t do it just yet.”

Now when 2000 rolls around, It all goes straight to hell,
For zero’s less than ninety-nine, As anyone can tell.

The mail won’t bring your pension check, It won’t be sent to you
When you’re no longer sixty-eight, But minus thirty-two.

The problems we’re about to face, Are frightening, for sure.
And reading every line of code’s, The only certain cure.

 [key change, big finish]
There’s not much time, There’s too much code.
(And Cobol-coders, few), When the century is finished with,
We may be finished, too.  We may be finished, too.

Eight thousand years from now I hope, That things weren’t left too late,
And people aren’t then lamenting, Four digits for a date.
Four digits for a date.