SCP-2673 Containment Maintenance Log

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Entry 2673-7 (page)
Date: 09 Sep 2015 06:00
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



Entry 2673-13 (page)
Date: 24 Nov 2015 07:00
Comments: A villanelle to prevent a breach/Time will tell how far it reached

Words are a cage to prevent it set free
Be sure to update and keep it contained
Beware the escape of two six seven three

This memetic, parasitic, Euclidic SCP
If it catches you you cannot be saved
Words are a cage to prevent it set free

This is the way we can keep you free
If it catches you it will lead you to the grave
Beware the escape of two six seven three

It hunts in the verses, ways we can't see
Keeping it locked up is this villanelle's aim
Words are a cage to prevent it set free

You could be infected, you cannot unsee
If it consumes you you'll never be the same
Beware the escape of two six seven three

Safe to the world, but deadly to me
This SCP will never be tamed
Words are a cage to prevent it set free
Beware the escape of two six seven three



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 2673-11 (page)
Date: 31 Jan 2017 07:00
Comments: Failure of containment during routine monitoring. Emergency procedures implemented.

One evening while I'm waiting, and my fate I'm contemplating,
Thinking how I've come to monitor that 2-6-7-3.
Neither sleeping, napping, dozing,
No! But poems I'm composing.
All constructed to encapsulate that parasitic meme:
Poe, I thought I'd parody to stop that dreaded meme.
T'was success: or so it seemed.

Suddenly I'm struck with feeling and I find my conscience reeling.
Was this to be the being I had sworn would not go free?
So I grasped a pen and started,
With memories of long departed
strangers, dead before their time because of dangers gone unseen.
I swiftly inked a verse or two to stop the beast unseen.
It's contained now, finally.



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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