Appeal Feather

You wanted to smash up the room,
And deliver a verdict of doom.
But you filed a small note,
That will peacefully float,
And be swept by the manager’s broom.

The Feather goes up in the air,
To pretend that they actually care.
It rises so slow,
With a beautiful glow,
And achieves fucking nothing up there.

They gave you a form to protest,
That puts your frustration to rest.
The Feather takes flight,
In the fading light,
And the system continues its quest.

The feather was filing a plea
And fell right down into the sea
The appeal was denied
The manual cried
The logic is completely free

An appeal that was lighter than air
Was floating right over the chair
The server is down
We put on a frown
With absolutely no kind of care

We ask for a digital grace
And ruin the digital space
The feather is dead
We painted it red
And cover our terrified face

The appeal is perfectly null
The system is boring and dull
We stamp it approved
The data removed
The vacuum is perfectly full

The feather is perfectly flat
We leave the whole database at
A state of decay
For many a day
And blame it on somebody’s cat

The form was too heavy to lift,
And causing the server to drift.
We let the thing fall,
In the empty hall,
And finished our terrible shift.

The feather was formally filed,
And into the pipeline compiled.
The vertical climb,
Is a matter of time,
While metrics remain undefiled.

The plume is a relic of old,
Which turns our complaints into gold.
The ancestors weep,
While the servers sleep,
And the legends of downtime are told.

The pigeon was placed in the queue,
With forms that are completely true.
We referenced the beak,
As a storage leak,
And told the old router what’s new.

We ask that your anger is soft,
And carried securely aloft.
The hardware will break,
For protocol’s sake,
Because the new manager coughed.