Corrupted

There was a poem here - I swear there was.
Not a good poem, no, but workmanlike,
Touched with a couple of delicious words.
But then the Internet, as oft it does,
Decided on a small impromptu strike,
And shatter that old poem into sherds,
Leaving me with nothing. I could try
To write that poem out again and see
What would come back; but that just seems absurd.
So I am forced to simply let it lie,
And have this poem be what it will be,
Instead of what, at first, I had preferred.
Still there's one thing I'll keep: the final beat.
With you, all things are better on repeat.