There are strange
things done 'neath the midnight sun
By the folks who
moil with code;
An embedded trace
gives an endless chase
When compiled in
debug mode.
The panel lights
have shown odd bytes,
But the oddest they displayed
Was that night I
thought, in User Support,
That I'd do a sys
upgrade.
From Seattle ground
on Puget Sound,
Where the Duwamish
meets the sea,
The system spread
like a wound that bled,
But should not've
passed the quay.
I was always told,
by coders old,
That it drained you
like a spell;
But I had no choice;
the boss's voice:
"Linux? Rot in Hell!"
As I sipped my brew
the screen went blue,
And then the
helpline rang:
"My Word doc's
gone! It's almost dawn.
“You're the one
that I'll harangue.
"I've a meet at
ten. Must I use a pen?
“You're supposed
to make it work."
I could tell from
his tone at the end of the phone
That this one was a
jerk.
But he had a point:
in this hardware joint,
The server's meant
to serve,
With an uptime that,
quite unlike FAT,
Would every bit
preserve.
I set down my cup, took the backup,
Then mounted it in the
drive,
And thought to myself,
"If the link were ELF,
“I'd have it up
in five."
The drive-LED
flashed. The head then crashed.
My tea soaked
round the keys.
So I cursed an oath
at the undergrowth
Of the open-plan
tubbed trees.
Then I recalled the
machine installed
To test a new
release.
Maybe that would run
better than none
And finally give me
peace.
I plugged in a
mouse, and keys unsoused,
And a
postcard-sized green screen,
Then I hit reset, with
my brows knit,
Hoping that release
was clean.
My luck was in.
Beta for the win.
It booted to a
prompt.
I ran the scripts
and checked the MIPS;
It wouldn't end up
swamped.
The Post-it note
that I wrote
Had brief words of
advice.
"Admins", it said, "The machine is dead.
"The disk has failed
us twice.
"But the spare server
is a life preserver
"That'll run till
half-past three.
"When the next shift,
if you catch my drift,
"Takes over" - Sam
McGee.
