The snark-snook-blibble is a curious thing,
it lives in my head eating nothing but string.
It flaps and it swarks with steampowered vigour,
sucking microscope lenses to make itself bigger.
burps and snores through a pongo whang tube,
chewing green metal socks when in a bad mood.
Eating earwax pies and cakes made of skin,
a vomit projectile who hides in my bin.
Using junk moot pranks covered with spoons,
and old smelly pants to play farting tunes.
Instead of a liver it siphons up dust,
expelling pure gold from a 6-nipple bust.
It groans and it stamps its huge flipper paws,
ambushing my brain by jumping off doors.
So I snapped its neck like an old tooth-pick,
dismembered its body with an ice candle-stick.
They locked me away in this instuitional room,
with nice padded walls, the colour of moon.
I curse and I dribble, I swear and I tick,
my brain hears the voices, they say I am sick.
But the snark-snook-blibble will show that I'm right,
when it pays them a visit at the stroke of midnight.
Never again will they doubt, that I am insane,
when I scoop out with a spoon the rest of my brain.
Code therapy is my soul, my hexadecimal drug,
a demented hacker existance, consumed by the bug.
So heed my warnings and the tale of the snark,
or you'll end up insane with a craving to bark.
Now run away you newbies, quickly flee from this place.
else spend all your time using strange number base.
Or continue you fool, join the binary heap,
say hello to the world, and goodbye to your sleep!