Blamey McTypoface

“Well, actually,” Blamey began,
“The fault’s in your deployment plan.”
He pointed at Tim,
Who pointed at Kim,
Who pointed at someone who ran.

He filed the blame deep in a log
Then screwed the intern like a cog.
“It’s not my mistake—
It’s your line that breaks.”
Then he stamped it and hid in the fog.

The scapegoat log grew every night
With entries both saucy and tight.
Each record laid bare
Someone’s shame and despair
While Blamey watched, rigid with spite.

He “NOTED” a ticket in red
Then took the stack trace back to bed.
He stroked every line,
Called the segfault “divine,”
And blamed Cssandra instead.

A NULL pointer wandered in nude.
Blamey said, “That’s terribly rude.”
He rerouted the shame
To a different dev’s name,
Then got off on the magnitude.

His triplicate blame forms were thick—
Each copy more lurid, more slick.
Department One: “Noted.”
Department Two: “Quoted.”
Department Three: “That’s a whole dick.”

At three-fourteen AM, barely dressed,
He stamped “OTHER PEOPLE’S” with zest
On faults, failures, leaks,
And someone else’s mystiques,
While the syslog lay bare and impressed.

They said, “Blamey, own it for once.”
He replied with a withering stunts:
“The error’s not mine,
It’s line forty-nine,
And whoever deployed it’s a dunce.”

So if blame arrives wrapped in a bow
And the fault trace has put on a show
Of misdirection and heat,
With a red-stamped receipt,
That’s McTypoface—letting you know.

“It’s obviously your fault,” he hissed,
While ticking your name off his list.
He stamped it with glee,
Laughed, “Better you than me,”
And dismissed it as if it was missed.

He carried a terrible pen,
And circled the syntax of men.
“This bracket is flawed!
Your logic’s a fraud!”
Then he crashed the compiler again.

The scapegoats were lined in a row,
With nowhere to hide and to go.
Blamey handed them tags,
Put their careers into bags,
And smiled at the horror below.

“It wasn’t the code,” Blamey lied,
“A cosmic ray hit from outside.”
The server had burned,
But Blamey just turned,
And blamed it on Jupiter’s tide.

He filed the report in the trash,
Then demanded a payment in cash.
“The fault has been found,
It’s nowhere around,”
He declared with a snide little dash.

He passed the hot potato along,
In a chain that grew longer and wrong.
Each person in line
Blamed the one who designed
The system that broke all their song.

When asked for the documentation,
He offered a blameful narration:
“It’s not written down,
So let’s wear the crown,
Of systematic miscommunication.”