I hear the sirens coming close they’re lurking right outside in record haste the tired users log-off far and wide but it’s my house (for fourteen years) nowhere to run and hide. it’s always like this when we meet (as we do once a year) we’re showing off, we’re writing hard, we’re giddy, we’ve no fear— we sate ourselves on banter ‘til the web goes out of gear. and when the internet is down, by contests, wit, and cups, when Ren and Fyn, (most everyone) are too worn out to sup, they say, “oh, Rhyssa won’t you be a doll— go clean that sucker up.” and so I pick up crumpled bits of worn computer code I exile the empty cans and flush out the commodes and polish all—so those web cops won’t censure our abode. line count: 24 Prompt ▼ |