Oh woe is me, a coder out of luck;
My scripts ignite the moment they are struck.
This logic—cobbled scaffolds in the rain—
Collapses softly, whispering, "Run again."
My variables elope and change their names,
Hiding in scopes like actors switching frames.
The linter keeps a vigil by my screen,
Counting my sins in red and sickly green.
I named the function hope()—it returned null;
A promise I awaited, faint and dull.
I push to prod; prod pushes back, amused—
The stack trace reads: "Assertion: you're confused."
A segmentation fault inside my chest;
The core dumps dreams. Support says, "Get some rest."
The rubber duck, my priest, absorbs my fears;
I whisper edge-cases no one else hears.
final_FINAL.js—behold the pyre;
My commit notes chant last rites: "fix… fix… fix."
The build turns green, then red, then green, then red—
Traffic for ghosts who never cross—just dread.
Exceptions drift like candles down a stream;
We catch them all, yet still they find a seam.
My team nods on with undertaker grace,
Estimating coffins, timeboxed in a space.
Jira devours hours with a gentle slurp;
Meanwhile scope creep tiptoes in—a velvet twerp.
And still I type, indenting grief and grace—
A try/except around what I can't erase.
If mercy compiles somewhere near the dawn,
I'll ship a patch; if not—I'll debug on.
For even when the night refutes my art,
I'll git commit, and branch it from my heart.
A meditation on the developer's journey through digital purgatory