'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a user was using ... not even a mouse;
The programs were hung from the bugs in their code,
In hopes that a guru would soon cure their woes;
The data were nestled all snug in their beds,
While versions of software danced in their heads;
The boss dimmed the lights as I locked up my desk,
A couple days off and a well-deserved rest;
Then all of a sudden there came such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the processor I flew like a flash,
What a terrible sound .. like a massive headcrash;
The lights they were blinking and beaming aglow,
The hardcopy printout said "Let service know!";
When what to my wandering eyes should appear,
On a silicon wafer ... a field engineer;
A little device driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Chip!
More rapid than Macro, his cursor insane,
He whistled and shouted like a video game.
Now, Pascal! Now, Basic!, Now, Fortran and Cobol!
On RPG! On PL/1, On Dibol and Snobol!
To the top of the registers, the bottom of core!
Run diagnostics and see what they store!
As memory leaves when electricity flies,
The 'Rep' cracked a smile and loosened his tie;
He was chubby and plump, said the place was a wreck,
And I laughed when I saw him (in spite of high tech).
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He was dressed from his head to his feet in a suit,
His briefcase was heavy with tools to re-boot.
With bundles of bits bulging out of his slacks,
He looked like a pro 'bout to fix a blown pack.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Reseated PC boards, then turned with a smirk;
Hit return with his finger and said "Here it goes,"
And giving a nod, into the CRT he dove.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere leaving the site,
"Restore the data, and all will be right!"
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