The Disquieting Domicile of the Storms

Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile, A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair— Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry, Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo, And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement, Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent, While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray, Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason. O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure, But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament— Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives, And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges, Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay, A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians. In a most uncouth and disquieting retort, The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt: Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair, As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms, And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret, So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy— A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse. Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void, The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener, A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails, That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.