SCP-2673 Containment Maintenance Log

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Entry 2673-6 (page)
Date: 15 Jun 2015 06:00
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?



Entry 2673-18 (page)
Date: 01 May 2019 04:00
Comments: It's been far too long. I'm locking this thing down with everything we have - internal rhyme, multiple references, poetry puns even.

Jumping hoops for a skip
With our acrobat words,
Fly away, twenty-six,
Poetry's for the birds.

Seven-three, you must see
There's no ballad too frail
By our metric, we're skeptic
Poetry'll ever fail.

In a prison of rhythm
You versus our verse
No escape, far too late,
Poetry is your curse.

So give up, little skip;
As I type my refrains,
Two-six-seventy-three
Poetry will contain.



Entry 2673-9 (page)
Date: 14 Apr 2017 06:00
Comments: We haven't made any attempt to contain it in almost a year. I might as well.

The creature stalked the comma and choked the apostrophe.
It stomped upon the period, that 2673!
No question mark can stop him, so I guess it's up to me
to stop the written terror that is 2673!

It started with the free form verse, that answered the needed call,
to stall this visious verbal beast. Just too bad it was mauled!
It then went to a haiku, and while virtuous was he,
he was efficiently slaughtered by this ferocious SCP!

The creature stalked the comma and choked the apostrophe.
It stomped upon the period, that 2673!
No question mark can stop him, so I guess it's up to me
to stop the written terror that is 2673!

It made it's way to the limerick and smashed it to a pulp,
and then it went to the triolet and swallowed it in one gulp.
Then it came upon another haiku, and boy was it a fight!
The simple minded poem kept it down for many nights.

The creature stalked the comma and choked the apostrophe.
It stomped upon the period, that 2673!
No question mark can stop him, so I guess it's up to me
to stop the written terror that is 2673!

It finally defeated it's poor ancient and wise foe,
and came across the next poem and wrecked it, don't you know?
Its next threat, the pantuom, had packed quite of a punch
but eventually ol' 2673 had that sad poem for lunch!

The creature stalked the comma and choked the apostrophe.
It stomped upon the period, that 2673!
No question mark can stop him, so I guess it's up to me
to stop the written terror that is 2673!

The classy sonnet was what was next, though it seemed that he was beat,
It turned out that defeating him was not a easy feat.
The ancient beast was trapped in a Shakespearean maze,
but by the time 2016 had come the dear sonnets eyes were glazed!

The creature stalked the comma and choked the apostrophe.
It stomped upon the period, that 2673!
No question mark can stop him, so I guess it's up to me
to stop the written terror that is 2673!

Now Christmas is upon us, and the creature's nearly freed,
so I conjured up this poem to fulfill this frightful need.
I hope it does it's job well, and doesn't become too scorched
when our Night Before Christmas parody passes down her terrifying torch!

The creature stalked the comma and choked the apostrophe.
It stomped upon the period, that 2673!
No question mark can stop him, so I guess it's up to me
to Secure Contain and then Protect this horrid SCP!



Entry 2673-10 (page)
Date: 16 Jan 2017 07:00
Comments: Breach intervention required, primary containment personnel unavailable.

Roses are red,
warning lights too,
and both night shift poets
are out with the flu.
So I wrote this bad poem,
containment to patch,
and now sit here praying
it lasts through the watch.



Entry 2673-8 (page)
Date: 14 Apr 2017 06:00
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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