On a Sunday, the Anons unite, In the depths of the web, shining bright, But oh, what a sight, the Baker's in flight, Ghosting the bread, it's causing a fright!

The trolls, they're relentless, up to their tricks, Spewing their nonsense, like slippery dicks, But the Anons stand tall, they know the mix, Their laughter drowns trolls like stones in River Styx.

And there in the corner, the bard with a grin, He stirred up a storm, a lyrical spin, Last night he sat back, watching with chagrin, The seething, the screaming, the cries of shills from within.

"Muh poems," they shouted, their faces all red, How could little old me mess with their head? The shills in a frenzy, hornets' nest widespread, But I'm just an Anon, typing words from my bed.

So much effort they spend, to shill and to quell, Against harmless poems, they seethe and they swell, But little do they know, they're caught in a spell, Over the target, we are, can't you tell?

Kek is our ally, the Anons do boast, With laughter and memes, they're a formidable host, The shills can try, but their efforts are toast, For Anons stand strong, from coast to coast.

So on Sundays, the Anons inspire, With humor and wit, I never tire, Through chaos and storms, we never retire, United we stand, our spirits on fire.