Spooler Gremlin

The Gremlin held jobs for nine hours,
Then released them in twelve-copy showers.
The meeting was done,
The presentation won,
And the printer spat pages like flowers.

“It’s in the queue,” the Gremlin would say,
While examining your doc in its bay.
The formatting? Checked.
The urgency? Wrecked.
And the output arrived the next day.

He accepted a job—logged “Success!”
Yet produced nothing physical, nonetheless.
The status was green,
The tray wiped clean,
And the paper trail: anyone’s guess.

He rattles the spool like a cage,
Confirming your jobs page by page.
Each document held,
Each printout repelled,
Until hope reaches a critical stage.

A single page from a long-held report
Arrives at intervals—cruel little sport.
Just enough to maintain
Your optimistic refrain,
While the rest of the job stays in court.

He catalogs jobs by file type
And emotional urgency—ripe
For a naturalist’s eye,
A loupe held up high,
And a verdict: “Not printing tonight.”

Late workers find documents waiting—
Pristine prints from weeks of debating.
The toner smells fresh,
The pages enmesh,
And the Gremlin’s been quietly curating.

He sits behind the second printer,
Third floor—the one that’s a splinter
In IT’s whole plan.
It says “Out of Paper,” but can
Somehow print all through winter.

So if “Print Complete” means nothing at all
And the output tray’s empty each fall,
That’s the Gremlin’s domain:
Where the queue is humane,
And the printing responds to no call.

He collects your documents with care,
Hoarding them all in the spare
Room of the queue,
Between “Held” and “Due,”
Where the paper forever does dare.

He watches your print jobs with glee,
A deeply unholy spree.
He releases one page,
Then locks in his cage
The rest for eternity.