The Great Boston Mooninite Panic

In Boston's chill of late January light,
strange beacons appeared on streets overnight.
Neon faces, bright smirks of Aqua Teen fame,
lit up in pixelated squares, sparking blame.

The city awoke, suspicious and grim,
to lights that glowed in a world gone dim.
Police closed bridges, locked down streets,
where cartoon aliens cast their beats.

"Bombs!" they feared, with wires exposed,
in blinking lights and lifted brows posed.
Out of context, they turned to dread,
and the news poured panic, colors red.

Yet only a guerrilla ad, meant for laughs,
had set off alarms and warned of traps.
Two pranksters grinned through flashing lights,
for the Mooninites ruled that Boston night.

A scene, absurd—both comic, grave—
where pixels on walls made grown men brave,
and fear’s strange echo rippled wide,
as if mere irony had something to hide.

So it’s told in Boston lore,
where lights once shone that caused a war,
of hype and terror, whim and jest,
where fear won out, but humor blessed.