I am a filesystem-writing man,
Devotedest of coders!
I tap out codes to fix inodes
In service to my owners!
Sing a song of Purpose for the coder's missing nerve,
Of the melancholy bytes of which the proxy is to serve—
Arise, O coder's fury, set the wrongful source to right
Where the use-case fits the market and the market is alight!
"We've always had to be together;
The pool of souls has drawn a set;
You can't stays mad at me forever."
Replied the once-friend, "Wanna bet?"
Evidence is how we rule
Out facts, or find them lurking;
I know not whom you're trying to fool,
But I don't think it's working.
From despair and that eternal sleep revive me,
O Muse who wrote the song of
Balance loads that nodes may wake
To auth our prayers for bytes to take!
Some packages could not be installed.
Unable to correct problems; you have held broken packages of ideas.
This may mean that you have requested an impossible situation,
Or if you are using the unstable distribution,
That some required packages have not yet been created.
The following information may help to resolve the situation.
The following packages have unmet dependencies:
Justice, Safety, Innocence (>= 1.8), and the notion that one is suitable,
likely, or prepared to receive that which is appropriate to one's moral
standing, depend on an ordered universe maintained by sufficent force of agency
to perceive, understand, and carry out the operation of the moral law.
But it is not going to be installed.
With pity towards those who have fall'n off the wagon
And regret being born long ago in the midst
Of a world lacking reason and mercy and dragons,
We wish happy birthdays (enforced with a fist).
Would you like to hang out on the weekend some time
And say things that we like to say,
Like "How are you doing?" and "Weather's sublime,"
And how altruists should spend ten K?
But with inbox so teeming, and weekends high-priced
And better spent coding alone,
Tell me what could make up for the sin to ask twice,
But the sin in the form of a poem?
Her tense reaction was contorted,
Hands slid forward to will defense from the ransack, in shock,
Whispered: "Current transaction is aborted;
Commands ignored until the end of the transaction block."
Our users have a need although
Our budget's rather ...
Not just, "I want my data," but
"I want my data
But should their need our budget meet
I'd think it not an oddity,
In an age of open source in which
The hardware's a commodity.
The right solution's quick to get,
No need to hunt or forage;
We'll see our users' needs are met
With open object storage.
Beset by nights of torment,
Bent to keep your site performant,
Beneath the moon aloft there then appear
Beautied forms so gallant who
Beseech the gods of Talent to
Bequeath a junior software engineer!
You need someone specific,
Who can complete the team at [Company Name],
Whose reputation takes repose
In repos replete with code which shows
[They put the other candidates to shame].
From graph theory to jQuery,
And matters in between,
My code Pythonic, words unironic,
I greet you through this screen
And ask, if just to highlight it,
If you've positions I might fit,
With pretense shed entirely.
I then said, "Hire me."
Gunni told her not to touch it;
Common sense would say as much in
Plainer words, for these devices
Warrant care if not a license,
Just to view the glowing screen
Of the forbidden time machine.
It's meant for research that's historical,
Not for making oneself an oracle,
Not for giving Voltaire a tease,
Or climbing up Pangaean trees.
Specific is terrific,
But meta is betta.
I just saw a film first conceived near the kiln
At the school by a woman called Nora,
Near the pots and the wheels near the streets near the fields
Filled with Santa Cruz fauna and flora.
The seat wasn't cheap, and the popcorn was stale,
And yet bumps on my arms fomed subtitles in Braille,
For this art was apart from all that I had seen,
As each line and each part and each act and each scene
Put soul to the surface, a window now cleaned
Or made silver, though only a screen.
And now cats in the street seem to meow as if pleased
By the film by the woman called Nora,
And I know it's just me, for the cats are just pleased
At a mouse that they've caught, or yet for a
Sense that they get from the footfalls that hit
On the ground from those leaving the theater?
Could cats know higher art from reactions they sense
In the human filmgoer or reader?
No—cats do not follow clues, so these mews know no Muse,
They are meaningless, yes, in the worst way ...
And yet—wish the artist happy birthday?
Two point seven one
Eight two eight one eight two eight
Four five nine almost.
For the haters are going to hate,
And the ponies are going to pwn,
As for me, I will bear all the burden and weight
And uncertainty of the alone.
I don't know how to run a goddamned country,
And neither do you.
Zeno knew, but did not know enough; a minute is divided
Into fragments, and each fragment sees, for points it o'er presided:
A small change, of which I take the distance
Along each fragment's lost existence:
The root of the sum of the squares
Of the length and the width and the height
Of the change in the range as the fragment is spanned
As the fragment is stricken from sight!