Sol Burnout

Sol Burnout in Java tees clad
Still runs pkgadd—it’s not sad.
His SPARC chip gleams bright,
His terminal: orange-on-white—
Wait, orange-on-orange. That’s bad.

He refuses to say “the acquisition.”
In his world, Sun’s still in position.
The JavaStation’s due
For a comeback debut,
And /usr/dt runs with precision.

He polishes CDE install disks
And prays to nfs.server for kicks.
His rlogin’s enabled,
His trust model fabled,
And the security team takes the hit.

He reads error logs like a poem
And calls the Solaris book “home.”
At precisely 13:37
He runs truss on heaven
And checks if the syscalls still roam.

He hasn’t patched since ’09—
Which he considers by design.
“If it ain’t broke,
Don’t invoke
A maintenance window, that’s fine.”

His brightness caused retinal grief:
Aggressive overlays, beyond belief.
The UI was blazing,
The glare was amazing,
And the sunburn was page-wide relief.

He declared Summer Readiness in January—
Six months early, absolutely contrary.
He rebooted with shimmer,
The heat a glimmer,
And shade was refused. How solitary.

He canceled a mascot retreat
By radiating existential heat.
The dread was so bright,
It burned through the night,
And the fun was officially beat.

“Solaris?” he says with a sniff,
“I barely remember that riff.”
But his screensaver still shows
The Sun Microsystems logos,
And his SPARC chip’s still giving him stiff.

So if terminals glow amber-hot
And the sysadmin’s tied in a knot
Of legacy pride,
With a SPARC by his side,
That’s Sol. Still burning. A lot.

He strapped himself tight to the rack,
While sweating right through his old Mac.
The SPARC started burning,
His stomach was churning,
And he climaxed right into the stack.

He loves when it’s orange on orange,
A visual, terrible gorge.
He stared at the screen,
The dirtiest seen,
And hammered his code like a forge.

He leaves his rlogin exposed,
A security hole he enclosed.
He wants you to enter,
Right into the center,
And watch as the system gets hosed.

He strips to a SunOS display,
And throws all the updates away.
The patches are gone,
He leaves the ports on,
And invites all the hackers to play.

He polishes floppies at night,
With a deeply fanatical might.
He rubs the old plastic,
With motions drastic,
And begs for the CDE light.

He burns with a SPARC processor glow,
A legacy heat that won’t go.
The system runs hot,
His desire won’t stop,
And the orange terminal steals the show.

He worships the Sun Microsystems way,
A cultist who’ll never decay.
The JavaStation calls,
He answers the halls,
And polishes floppies all day.