Markie D. Down

Old Markie despised any rich text.
He’d strip it and leave the file hexed.
“Just use markdown,” he said,
While formatting bled,
And the WYSIWYG lay there perplexed.

He sorted his frontmatter at midnight
By key length—a ritualistic delight.
Each YAML field pressed
Against his bare chest,
And the fenced code blocks glimmered with light.

He wailed when he saw inline HTML—
A sin worse than anything from hell.
“You put a <span>
Inside my clean plan?”
And the static site gen rang its bell.

His clipboard was ASCII alone.
No colors, no fonts, skin and bone.
He carried a red pen
To strike out the sin
Of formatting richer than stone.

A footnote once crashed his whole site.
He linted it hard through the night.
The heading loop forked
The spec, and he corked
His rage in a fenced block, sealed tight.

His Pandoc conversion was pure—
“Convert once, never look back” was the lure.
He rendered in grief,
Each asterisk, brief,
And the emphasis never found cure.

He recited LaTeX in the dark,
Escaped blocks in a cold parking park.
Each backslash a prayer,
Each bracket laid bare,
And the plaintext left barely a mark.

Google Docs made him physically ill.
RTF gave him a murderous thrill.
He’d strip every style,
Defile every file,
And leave nothing but text and goodwill.

His vulnerability? Truly absurd:
Rich Text Format was his dirty word.
He’d gag on a font,
Choke on a jaunt
Through WYSIWYG, thoroughly stirred.

So if formatting’s stripped to the bone
And the headings are properly grown,
That’s Markie’s terrain:
Where plaintext will reign,
And the markup is carved out in stone.

He ripped off the rich text and fonts,
Denying your formatting wants.
“You’ll take it in plain,”
He said with disdain,
And threw you right into his haunts.

He tied up the WYSIWYG tool,
And treated the user quite cruel.
He stripped every tag,
Used a plaintext rag,
And left the rich text in a pool.

He gets off on perfectly spaced
And semantically beautiful paste.
If you use inline style,
He gets extremely vile,
And bans you in terrible haste.

He fucked up the asterisk count,
And the emphasis started to mount.
A dangling bold,
Incredibly cold,
And totally drained the account.

He sorts all the YAML by size,
With deeply fanatical eyes.
The frontmatter gleams,
In plaintext extremes,
And ignores your formatting cries.

He mastered the backtick display,
With triple-backtick power at play.
Each fenced code block tight,
Formatted just right,
And he’d punish your inline HTML splay.

He lived in a Markdown monastery,
Where every file was literary.
No styles, no font,
Just plaintext’s blunt front,
And nothing remotely auxiliary.