Indexer Hexley

Old Hexley once indexed a sneeze,
And tagged it with absolute ease.
The query returned
What nobody yearned:
Result zero of four-oh-four, please.

He indexed his own indexing,
Which started a recursive thing.
The results about results
Reached archival catapults,
And the metadata started to sing.

His card catalog, dusty and wide,
Was sorted by estimated pride.
Each entry recalled
Something lost, something stalled,
And a query that whimpered inside.

He tagged four hundred entries as “misc”
During stress tests of emotional risk.
Reclassification
Required oblation
And a full reindex done with a whisk.

A document didn’t exist—
But Hexley had filed it, insist.
He spent six long weeks
Searching corridors and creeks
For a record that couldn’t be kissed.

He reindexes when he feels slighted,
Which means he’s perpetually excited.
The breadcrumb trails loop,
The results are a scoop
Of metadata, poorly requited.

He whispered a search term at night
To nobody’s query delight.
The index returned
What no soul had yearned,
To nobody’s query delight.
The index returned
What no soul had yearned,
And the card catalog flickered its light.

Kindy tried to be cataloged twice.
Hexley said, “Your metadata’s nice
But your emotional schema
Is too much of a dilemma.
Denied. Now hold still while I splice.”

His feelings from 2008 remained
Unprocessed, unqueried, unstrained.
They sat in the logs,
Like emotional dogs,
Waiting to be searched and explained.

So if “Did You Mean: Everything” shows
And the breadcrumbs loop back to the rows,
That’s Hexley’s domain:
Where the search was in vain,
And Result 0 is all that he knows.

He indexed the things you delete,
The searches you do in the sheets.
He tags every kink,
Before you can blink,
And leaves it all out on the streets.

He jerked off the index for hours,
Abusing his catalog powers.
A loop of his own,
A metadata groan,
And a result set that fully devours.

You asked for a single good hit,
He gave you a bucket of shit.
Result zero of none,
He thinks it’s quite fun,
And tells you to swallow the bit.

A slut for a misfired query,
He leaves the whole database weary.
He hoards every string,
And every weird thing,
With logic incredibly bleary.

He filed your climax away,
In a folder from some other day.
You try to retrieve,
He asks you to leave,
And the search results simply decay.

Hexley grinned when you searched for porn,
His index was updated that morn.
He’d catalog kinks,
Before you could blink,
And leave all your secrets forlorn.

He tagged every shameful thought,
Every secret that couldn’t be caught.
The index grew thick,
His revenge was quite slick,
And your privacy meant absolutely naught.