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'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the *chan
Not an admin was stirring, neither in Japan;
The replies were hung by bait cast without care,
In hopes that a permaban soon would be there;
The posters were settled like lead in their chairs,
While visions of sugartits stiffened cocks theirs,
And Hiro in his T-shirt, the servers on tap,
Had just settled their fans for a long winter's nap —
When out from beyond there arose such a clatter,
He sprang in confusion not knowing the matter.
Away to his Twitter he flew like a flash,
Opened Google Translate, and drew up the hash.
The screen on the crest of his brow white as snow,
Gave the luster of mid-night with its sickly glow;
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But manifold threads, over eight thousand trolls rear,
With new and stale pastas, they spammed each hard and quick,
He knew not what of it 'neath irony twice-thick.
More rapid than eagles with cursors they flame,
Copy, pasting, shouting at each other names:
"Now! Shiller, hol up! King, now! Redpill and
LONDON,
O
N
D
O
N
"You! Faggot, you! Cuckold, you! Clapper and REEDUN;
"To the top of the page! On every catalogue!
"Shitpost away! Repost day! that feel and frog!"
As old piss jugs before the wild hurricane fly,
Post count is no obstacle, whole boards still will fry;
So right past the rules, FAQ, and ban-page they flew,
With HDs full of CP — and VPNs too:
And then like a tinkling, he heard from the loo
The prancing of hikkis over others' poo.