The ballad of Finnish public goods (and something about Lenore)

Once upon a midnight dreary while I wandered I posed a query,
of many a quaint and curious custom along that urban Finnish shore.
While I plodded, often slowing, suddenly I saw a glowing,
As if someone, numbers flowing, brushed a pattern on yon smokestack's fore.
" 'Tis some barcode," I muttered, "brushed on yon smokestack's fore;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, quite staunchly I projected, that those Finns must be dejected,
That each factory's rejected smokestacks must be hard to store.
Eagerly therefore they painted numbers; identifying blunders to ease their chore.
But to my thoughts this seemed quite silly, just plain "out there," really, this and nothing more
Than to paint a rare and radiant barcode whose image causes all to snore
Pointless, actually, and such a bore.