SCP-2673 Containment Maintenance Log
rating: +26+x

Date: mm/dd/yyyy
Comments: Optional

The verse you write,
Must have some form,
About this skip,
How's it contained,

This log maintained,
Don't let it slip,
From standards norm,
And do it right.


Date: 05/24/2015
Comments: Initial containment established.

Here you write the verse
Holding two six seven three
Make it a good one.


Date: 05/24/2015
Comments: Psycholinguistic analysis indicates a 2.4% chance SCP-2673 may breach containment. Give it a limerick.

There once was a skip in the words,
That made people break from the herds,
The Foundation sought it,
Until they had caught it,
And trapped it with poetry nerds.


Date: 05/25/2015
Comments: Reinforcing containment with a triolet.

To Secure, to Contain, to Protect
Against Keter, Euclid and Safe
To guard against any defect
To Secure, to Contain, to Protect
Twenty-six seventy-three is a meme
We must be vigilant against, always
To Secure, to Contain, to Protect
Against Keter, Euclid and Safe


Date: 05/30/2015
Comments: Scheduled containment reinforcement.

The poems protect
Against this horrible threat
To avoid a breach


Date: 06/03/2015
Comments: Specialist Nanku, placing SCP-2673 instance encountered by MTF Tau-5 "Samsara" on 06/05/2015 (Operation SILENT LEAF) into containment.

We are much alike, you and I,
I live, I die, I live again,
Our essence is information,
We are not only our copies,
We are unbound by our bodies.

I live, I die, I live again,
I live, I learn, I change, I grow,
We are not only our copies,
Are you now the same as you were?

I live, I learn, I change, I grow,
Do you hunt in words as before,
Are you now the same as you were,
Is it only the words that changed?

Do you hunt in words as before,
We are not only our copies,
Is it only the words that changed?
We are much alike, you and I.


Date: 06/15/2015
Comments: Containment reinforcement via implementation of pantoum.

Poems are jails to Two-Six-Seven-Three.
They keep it restrained in a maze of words,
The locks of metre and prisons of form.
This skip is contained, never to be freed.

They keep it restrained, in a maze of words
Where Two-Six-Seven-Three is lost in verse.
This skip is contained, never to be freed,
Never can it breach our containment.

Where? Two-Six-Seven-Three is lost in verse,
While we craft more verse to keep it contained.
Never can it breach! Our containment
Is the perfect jail for a thing of memes.

While we craft more verse to keep it contained,
Poems are jails to Two-Six-Seven-Three.
Is the perfect jail for a thing of memes
The locks of metre and prisons of form?


Date: 09/09/2015
Comments: Containment update overdue. Deploying emergency sonnet.

Down! Like a baited bear, our verses hem
On either side (with knots we'll not undo
Ensnaring verbal paws) this hunter, who
Syllabic slabs and metered bars condemn
To bondage lexical. Our words built high
Have held this savage stalker. Even so
Employed in poesy still, we toil below
But as the French might say: c'est le travail
Lo, is it less a bear, and more a fox?
A cunning captive, rife with devilry
Changing its form, our erstwhile memes to flee
Kept only by our ever-changing locks

Let hunter's hunters know: however wise
If bear is seen as fox, bear-baiter dies


Date: 24/12/2015
Comments: Merry Christmas from the poetry elves!

'Twas the day after deadline and, sodden with Moët,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the poet.
His "Poems" were sent to the printers with care
In hopes that the verses within they would share.
And Clement Clarke Moore, drunk and snoring in bed,
Had visions of Livingston dance in his head.

He dreamt that the Major, a shadowy wraith,
Sprang up from its tomb, in defiance of faith.
And with fingers of icy mist holding Moore fast,
It drew him inexorably into the past.
To March 1820, a night bleak and wet,
To relive the dark secret Moore learned when they'd met.

"A mad, drunken soldier," he later recalled,
"Kept impressing upon me some dogg'rel he'd scrawled.
As if, through my post as a Literature don
I could tell how to salvage a muse so far gone."
And yet (as he never admitted), once read
Some foul thing left the paper and lodged in his head.

For full twenty years it infected his mind.
He grew more erratic, effete and unkind.
He cursed in his sermons, without his volition,
He railed against Jefferson, fought Abolition.
He even took risks in a real estate wager -
until he discovered the fate of the Major:

Hank Livingston (Junior) had suffered for longer;
The hunter's effect on his mind had been stronger.
Risked life in the army in '74,
But far worse was to come on return from the war:
His year-old son, dead, "accidentally" burned;
Soon after, his wife to the earth was returned.

Now he knew the spiral of Livingston's life,
Moore feared for his own career, children and wife.
He recalled the black verse from that first, fatal night
And Moore guessed that the only escape was to write,
To release the thought-parasite out of his brain:
By transmitting insanity, make himself sane.

Moore quickly commissioned his "Poems" for print
With "St Nicholas" nestled there; never a hint
Of the theft of each syllable Livingston wrote,
Or the memetic virus it sought to promote.
Moore could scarcely imagine just how widely read
And beloved it became. So why aren't we all dead?

Well, when gatherings festive chant carols diverse,
When those bright young eyes plead for their favourite verse,
Just be thankful we found where the hunter endured
And are writing these poems to keep it secured.
And we'll hear you exclaim, in a tone of respect:
"Merry Christmas to all who contain and protect!"

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