Bricky Goldbricksworth

A golden brick known for compliance
Filed forms with erotic reliance.
Each stamp was a thrust,
Each footnote pure lust,
In a sub-basement built on defiance.

He stamped “ACKNOWLEDGED” in red
On the margins, the headers, the bed.
His tone kernel purred,
No safe word was heard,
And the filing kept going ’til dead.

Old Bricky embedded so deep
In the tone kernel, no one could sleep.
His annotations crept
Where the metadata slept,
And the Council just took it: no peep.

He filed himself three times that night—
Once by lantern, once left, and once right.
Each copy was sticky,
Distinctly un-tricky,
And the margins were scandalously tight.

“Your compliance has been… acknowledged.”
He whispered it, flushed and astonished.
The form was in triplicate,
Dripping with syndicate
Ink from a ritual long since demolished.

He left a marquee tag unclosed
While the Council Charter was posed
In degrading positions—
Old filing traditions—
And Parchment pretended he dozed.

His voting rights dossier read:
“Bricky may not tie-break in bed.”
But his footnotes still voted,
His margins devoted
To motions that quietly spread.

A subcommittee was formed to decide
If Bricky was sentient inside.
He filed a response
In recursive nonchalance
And the question just lay there and died.

Parchment said, “His margins offend me.”
Bricky said, “Your whitespace won’t end me.”
They fought over padding,
Got mutual adding,
And the style guide could barely defend me.

So if forms arrive pre-stamped and warm,
With a footnote that’s slightly non-norm,
That’s Bricky, gold-bricked,
Bureaucratically dicked,
Filing pleasure inside every form.

He spawned a new form just for fun,
Before the first form was quite done.
It asked for your soul,
In a small little hole,
And required a stamp from the sun.

His notes were all written in white,
Invisible even by light.
“It’s compliant,” he said,
To the newly made dead,
While ignoring the lack of a site.

He turned the whole queue to a brick,
A bureaucratic, immovable trick.
The data was stuck,
Just a terrible cluck,
And he gave it an innocent kick.

The whitespace was suddenly loud,
With a murmuring, protocol crowd.
Bricky left them a space,
In an unreadable face,
And looked on, formidably proud.

His apologies sparkled with dust,
Like an old filing cabinet rust.
“Please fill out this slip,”
With a quiver of lip,
“And place all your feelings in trust.”

His footnotes extended too long,
Ten levels of bureaucratic song.
Each subclause divine,
Each caveat fine,
While the main text just moaned all night long.