Green pixels scatter cross the screen,
Like broken forums none can clean,
Where moderators, weary-eyed,
Through mountains of reports reside.
The interface, a tangled mess,
Like twisted paths that bring distress,
A logo stretched beyond its means,
Lost in these administrative scenes.
Comic Sans on verdant slopes,
Where branding guidelines lose all hopes,
Misaligned buttons drift astray,
Like boulders on this mountain way.
The dashboard creaks with dated code,
While nature's grace stays freshly sowed,
These hills know nothing of our plight,
Of centered text that's left-aligned.
In winter's snow and summer's green,
No drop shadows were ever seen,
No gradient could hope to match
These rolling hills, this mountain patch.
The mod queue grows like spring-fed streams,
While jpeg artifacts fade dreams,
Of clean design and graceful flow,
Like wind across the mountain's brow.
Oh would that websites grew like grass,
Through rocky times of change they'd pass,
Instead they sit like broken frames,
While mountains rise above our names.
Yet still we tend these digital fields,
Accept the flaws that time reveals,
For somewhere in this grand design,
Both worlds - virtual and sublime - align.
