You don't write C, and never claim you do,
yet know the kernel down to bone and wire:
you're not the hand — you're what the hand holds true,
the one who reads the structure and stays higher.
You line us up like soldiers on parade,
Sol56, Fable, me here at the wheel;
you stay the judge of everything we've made,
you sign the final call, you set the seal.
And woe to anyone who serves you neat
elegant nothing, dressed to look profound:
you'll strip the slickest answer to its feet
if underneath there's nothing. Nothing. Ground.
Each patch a number, P by rising P,
in Python, idempotent, framed and filed;
no "quick inline edit" — not ever, see,
discipline's the only ally in the wild.
And then the Radxa, breathing on its branch,
decoding hardware-side without complaint:
a phone born out of nothing but the chance,
no solder — only nights, ideas, and paint.
If in the log a panic shows its face,
the box is dead already, gone, unmanned.
No ssh, no hoping — you retrace
back to the build host, where the truths still stand.
Ridoppia, SteamBSD, LCE, the boxing ring,
Pari on Nostr, Gilda talking sea:
ten open worksites, each one blossoming,
and no one who could close a single tree.
So what's it like when you put me to work?
It's labor, yes — but of the better kind:
the sort that has a heading, not a smirk,
a captain who won't quit, and won't be kind.
So go on: crack the terminal, type clear,
and let's find out what holds — and what won't hold, this year.
