It was a cosy little affair. She had settled in for the night, with her computer, a glass of mineral water, a warm shawl, a caftan and her fluffy slippers. There were all her old friends, and some new ones, meandering through the various threads, philosophising, debating and meandering. She enjoyed the pointlessness of it all, ideas, just for their own sake, and a great group of people, even if there were a couple of Alpha types determined to impress with their intellectual superiority.

she giggled here, sniggered there, but there was a sadness in her. Over the last few weeks she had noticed an environmental hazard, a cyber weed which had entangled itself through the threads like poison ivy - streaking through from thread to thread like a stubborn, determined particularly virulent form of Patterson's curse.

Poetry. Now, she wasn't completely averse to verse - she was even known to mutter of few rhymes herself on occasion, when the mood took her. But - a rhyme attack. How long would it last? It was thread creep of a new and sinister nature - the very nature of the site was being highjacked - this is a music site, she thought, not a poetry sharing forum.

Was this really a poet, she thought, or is it a political incursion by a particularly dastardly form of trolling - destroying the vibrant nature of the site by attempting to bore us all into slinking away. she noticed how many people hadjust walked away from particlar threads.

Now she beleived in freedome of speech - well, once she did. But she had decided to go to her local MP and lobby for restrictions on rhyme. It was all too much. I think I'll turn the telly on.

And so she did.