Jabbervolken

In the groves of the jabberkken, the coder does slythe on his outgraße,
The gnits of Javasxrit compete for the slumm, while the nymphs prance out of the sun.
All await the frundew of the pure code which hath not the smell of his schraub.
The truly vorpal code smells with the slight metallyck odour of aether and unvisited space.

Upon the logos of his routines, he can hang his cogs,
letting their lustrous ops curl around their tubulous dendrights,
pushing asynchronous trajectorie, fractal-like across the nets of Tim,
do the invisible lights flash and the inaudible switches whim.

The heavnly code doth blend the simple and the complex, yet
the complex is concealed amidst the mind of the Beowoelf's qyest.
All the while the simple shines, child-like from the plasmodeic grid,
pixels waiting for their journey away from the void to expend.

Complexification! do the booky scribes scribple on, yet the coding magister
harnesses the cycles of the Light towards the One Perfect Way for it to be done.
Flat or nested the scribes shout, yet the Beoweolf, unfliched, he's won.
Polarities are appropriate towards the brillig of logic, but alight not upon the surface of the vorpal code.

The code presents a synthesis that the task has reached a conclusion,
not simply a tix along the checkboxes of the coding pablum.
Iow, the magister isn't trying to merely spit out the answer,
he raises his code makes it his answer.

And if my writ is slumber on your ears, then I'll conclude this little ditty, that as long as the machine hums along a little bitty, it will

DRAFT