Tabby Fields

Old Tabby declared with a squeak:
“Merged cells are a crime—let me speak!
Your legibility’s shot,
Your formatting’s rot,
And the data integrity’s weak.”

She sleeps in pivot tables at night,
Communicating through cell reference’s light.
Each formula checked,
Each CSV inspected—
And pie charts? She shrieks with fright.

She punishes CSVs who pretend
To be TSVs—that’s the end.
The delimiters clash,
The formats rehash,
And the formatting rules she’ll defend.

Her clipboard tail curls like a pen
Over spreadsheet battlefields—and then
She detects every merge
From three sheets, on the verge
Of correcting your formulas. Amen.

A macro virus came to attack—
She survived it without looking back.
Her data stayed clean,
Her metadata keen,
And the virus went splat on her stack.

She’s a member of R.A.T.S., the syndicate—
Righteous tabulators, intimate
With spreadsheet law.
She’ll redact each flaw
And the rogue formats she’ll eliminate.

She was spotted on a Dell Inspiron,
2009 vintage, its last marathon.
She corrected the sums,
Squeaked at chart-making bums,
And the formula logic shone on.

Her color-coded sticky notes pile high,
A secret stash for every alibi.
Each error gets marked
With a tiny red spark,
And the magnifying whiskers stand by.

Turn off cell borders? She’ll bite.
That’s a personal affront, not slight.
The structure dissolves,
The mouse girl revolves,
And the rows are restored out of spite.

So if merged cells keep disappearing
And your spreadsheets need no more engineering,
That’s Tabby’s domain:
Where the data stays sane,
And the metadata mouse is still steering.