tilling the technopeasant fields

I've posted a chapter of theoretically-publishable work over on my Livejournal, because a long post is easier to read on LJ than here, I think. I struggled for close on two hours to get the damn thing up and under a cut. Gah and double-gah. Matters were not aided by my home computer and mouse being difficult about selecting text, especially long text. But it's done.
As my mum might have asked: "And what's this in aid of?"
International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, that's what. But I suspect most of the multitude (multitude, I say!) who read this blog will know all about this festival already, and have made their own contributions.
I'd just like to note that I do not wish to be known as a webscab, quite aside from the inaccuracy of using the term scab when no one is on strike and there's no picket line to cross. I am a web-blackleg, and I'll thank you to remember it.
Hm. I wonder if I can filk Blackleg Miner? (exit, pursued by a folksong)

Apparently I can, though Uncle Jim would do it better, of course:

It's in the evening after work
In his old sweatpants and slogan'd shirt
The sf reader his duty shirks
And reads the blackleg writers.

Well, he pours his joe and takes his pick,
The websites open to his clicks
He'll heed no word of Doc Hendrix
But he reads the blackleg writers.

Oh, the intarweb's a terrible place,
The pixels streaming at your face,
And around the blogs a furious pace
Is set by the blackleg writers.

Don't click on that cyan link,
Or the craft of writing it will sink,
You'll break the quill and you'll dry the ink
Of all but the blackleg writers.

So vote for Hendrix while you might,
Don't wait until the End's in sight,
The future's looking far from bright,
Because of the blackleg writers.