SCP-2673 Containment Maintenance Log

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Entry 2673-2 (page)
Date: 24 May 2015 06:00
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.

Entry 2673-5 (page)
Date: 03 Jun 2015 06:00
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.

Entry 2673-1 (page)
Date: 24 May 2015 06:00
Comments: Initial containment established.

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

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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