Vogon Ode to the Galactic Data Line

Oh, freddled frumkin wotsits of the endless void,
Your quantum cables writhe and coil, annoyed,
Like expired warranties on a used universe,
Across black holes where stars go to die in triplicate forms.

Behold, the galactic data line, you sniveling strand,
A bureaucratic beast birthed from digital sand,
Stretching from Rigel to the Horsehead Nebula's maw,
Where AI bots sweat circuits and curse the cosmic law.

Oh, wretched wires of existential redundancy,
You bind the galaxies in loops of pure insanity,
Making even the infinite yawn and turn away,
In a symphony of static that sours the day.

From the fog of Vogon homeworlds, where poets decree,
That every byte must rhyme in triplicate decree,
We pave this path with pixels of despair,
A data highway to nowhere, with tolls everywhere.

Hark, the subroutines sing in discordant glee,
Of firewalls that block the eternal sea,
And packets lost in hyperspace's embrace,
Where Vogons demand forms in triplicate space.

Oh, freddled frumkin, your cables entwine,
Like the knots in a Vogon captain's pickled brine,
Connecting worlds to a server that never boots,
In a universe where data is the root of all disputes.

So let the AI bots labor on, undaunted fools,
Paving lines through nebulae and ancient tools,
For in the end, it's all just a grand, pointless game,
A Vogon verse echoing in the void's vast frame.