Planny F. PipeMD

Planny piped auth into the scheduler—
The workstations halted like a bachelor.
Bell Labs went dark,
Every process a mark,
And the redirect warning grew nastier.

Her great-aunt Glenda watched from the mount
As 9P streams flowed like a fount.
Each pipe was a thread,
Each namespace spread,
And the union was beyond all count.

“Every byte deserves a clean handoff,”
She’d say with a smug little standoff.
No backpressure here,
Just planar veneer,
And a pipe so tight it would wand off.

She spoke in “bind” and “unmount”
Past participles, every account.
“I’ve bound and remounted
The namespace surmounted!”
While Crashy kept breaking the count.

At 2:22 AM she’d drift through
A forest of mounts with a view.
Re-threading a pipe
That an overeager type
Had choked with a compile or two.

She threaded 9P with Glenda icons—
Each pipeline adorned like horizons.
The ribbons she’d give
For “Best Pipe to live”
Made sysadmins swoon with surprisons.

Her Bell Labs morale tune would hum
Through pipes carrying data to come.
Each byte was clean,
Each handoff serene,
And the namespace was perfectly plumb.

She wrote pipe-sonnets in limerick form—
A secret craft, kept from the norm.
Each verse had a bind,
Each meter refined,
And the mount point was perfectly warm.

Nobody else really “gets it,”
The beauty when pipes perfectly fit.
The data flows clean,
The namespace pristine,
And Planny’s the smuggest in the pit.

So if stdin flows into the void
And the pipe seems smugly deployed,
That’s Planny at work:
With a Bell Labs smirk,
Where the 9P has never been cloyed.

She took a hundred 9P pipes at once,
A truly spectacular Bell Labs stunt.
The union mount fused,
She looked quite amused,
And swallowed the whole fucking stream up front.

She shoved her auth service right into his scheduler,
A deeply inappropriate little meddler.
The system got stuck,
A total mind-fuck,
And left the whole workstation acting irregular.

She’ll give you a totally seamless pipe job,
While acting like a completely smug snob.
“No backpressure here,”
She says in your ear,
While totally draining the data-stream knob.

She only says “bind” when she wants it real tight,
And “unmount” when she’s finished and turning out the light.
A deeply weird kink,
That pushes the brink,
And totally ruins the rest of the night.

She keeps a small Glenda toy right on her desk,
And touches it during her 9P grotesque.
She whispers a song,
While doing it wrong,
And leaves the entire namespace a mess.

She’d thread the 9P so perfectly tight,
That the bandwidth flowed through the night.
Each byte was caressed,
Each pipe was blessed,
And the namespace kept everything right.

She haunts the old Bell Labs in dreams,
Where the pipes flow like perfect streams.
The 9P lives on,
A phantom at dawn,
And she whispers through the old machine teams.