Roses are red,
The archives are cursed,
This page isn’t finished
Because the websprites unionized first.

The ink goblins vanished,
The moon ate the glue,
The skeleton typist quit suddenly
After demanding dental and stew.

A kangaroo in galoshes
Has stolen three files,
And the hallway to Paragraph Seven
Currently stretches for miles.

We deeply apologize, darling,
Truly. We do.
But strange little websites require naps
And occasional existential crises too.

Please return later,
When the walls stops screaming,
The babababoon finish wiring the chandeliers,
And reality resumes buffering properly.