Reclining in the beating rays,
All toasty slips into a haze,
What lovely babble on the air,
The water's croaks and adults' flairs.

Lines interseaming and overturning,
Stacking down to fractal criss-crosses,
Layered up to fit the form of figures,
Now playing dead to scare away the cold.

Tinkering around to make defective Pong,
I tap away and then survey,
The errors I begin to solve,
At last it's here,
A Pong half broken,
Along its lines of code at least,
It bears my fingerprints,
So I'm happy with this defective Pong.