Quiet Surplus

They claim we have plenty of space,
With a terrible smile on their face.
But the Surplus is fake,
For humanity’s sake,
And we’re losing the horrible race.

The silence is quiet and deep,
Because everybody’s asleep.
They think it’s a sign,
That the progress is fine,
While the workers continue to weep.

The managers asked for some more,
And pointed right at the front door.
The Surplus is gone,
But the lie carries on,
And leaves us all dead on the floor.

They mapped out the hours on a chart,
And ripped every schedule apart.
The surplus is shit,
And we’re taking the hit,
While the company murders the heart.

The metric says we can take more,
As the developers drop to the floor.
They bleed from the eyes,
While the management lies,
And forces their foot in the door.

There is no more slack in the rope,
And zero remaining damn hope.
The Surplus is vast,
In the lies of the past,
As the workers forget how to cope.

We counted the silence as space,
To optimize storage and pace.
The user’s defect,
Bred silent neglect,
Which added new bandwidth to trace.

The quiet was captured in bytes,
To justify unassigned rights.
The surplus applied,
The metrics complied,
By parsing the unmeasured plights.

They say that a reserve exists,
Concealed in the error-log mists.
The quiet provides,
Where entropy hides,
A margin the system resists.