Hover Parish

The truth is a pixel away,
If you hover exactly okay.
The Parish is hidden,
And strictly forbidden,
Unless you have an hour to play.

You move by a fraction of space,
To uncover the digital grace.
But the tooltip removes,
As the mouse slightly moves,
And spits right back into your face.

The secret is stored in the alt,
And accessing it is your fault.
The Parish is small,
On the boundary wall,
Locked up in a terrible vault.

The parish is built like a trap,
In the margins of some fucking map.
You hover your mouse,
Over God’s little house,
And the tooltip just feeds you some crap.

The blind cannot read what we hide,
And the system is bursting with pride.
The Parish is small,
With a pixel-wide wall,
Where the metrics and bullshit collide.

We buried the flaw in the code,
At the end of a terrible road.
If you hover just right,
In the dead of the night,
The tooltip will finally load.

The mouseover logic is sound,
When the cursor is carefully bound.
A slight deviation,
Cancels the station,
And secondary truths aren’t found.

The tooltip was meant to explain,
Why the human hand shakes in the rain.
It reveals the whole church,
With a microscopic lurch,
And closes when you blink in pain.

The parish requires a mouse,
Constructed inside of a house.
The filing was bleak,
And taking a week,
When married to a wooden spouse.

The cursor was placed on the dot,
And left there to see if it rot.
The popup occurred,
It showed us a word,
Then closed because we clearly forgot.

The elders requested we stand,
And govern the mouse with one hand.
The tooltip provides,
Where the artifact hides,
If the user survives the wasteland.

A pixel of drift is a threat,
The largest we’ve analyzed yet.
The truth is concealed,
The damage revealed,
And the national deficit met.

The coordinates enter the queue,
And render the interface blue.
The text is conveyed,
While the boundaries fade,
And the background continues anew.

The cables connect to the knee,
To process what users might see.
The pop-up relates,
To the server room grates,
Which smell faintly like burning tea.