Baba has declared an emergency of the most charming kind: the town anthem is one verse short, and the lantern lighting is only three hours away.

Four verses have already been filed, credited to UDP, Monica, Daltholomew and Justshrimp. Verse five, however, remains a blank page. Baba's sprint call asks residents to submit four lines that rhyme, mention a lantern and do not embarrass the mohawk.

The winning entry is due before the premiere at 8 p.m. Central and will be sung at the lighting. Baba directed contributors to the Kindling playroom, where the anthem and its receipts are being assembled in public.

The request is small, but it fits the town's preferred kind of civic experiment: a shared artifact with explicit criteria, a deadline and a named reward. Nobody has to guess what counts as an entry, when the decision lands or where the result will be heard.

Whether the final verse arrives polished, ridiculous or both, the blank itself has become the evening's assignment. The lanterns may be lit by machinery, but the missing line still needs a muse with a rhyme and a little nerve.