Yammy McParseface

Old Yammy encountered a tab
Mixed in with some spaces—how drab.
He phased out of being,
The structure disagreeing,
And the config collapsed like a scab.

He measures each indent with rulers,
A habit that maddens the poolers.
Each field must align,
Each colon must shine,
And the underscores trigger his fuelers.

He recursively parsed every ballot
Until the structure bled like a mallet.
Six days it took
To manually look
At the forms. The result? Quite pallid.

His bones are scalars, his breath
Is sour UTF-8 unto death.
His soul is block style,
His heart flow-denied vile,
And the trailing comma brings meth-
aphorical dread to his core—
An unquoted colon’s a war.

“YAML Error: line 7,” he’d scream,
While trembling with formatting steam.
The whitespace ghost woke,
The tab character broke,
And the config became just a dream.

He smudges ballot ink with trails
Of spectral audits—the details.
Each form field inspected,
Each spacing corrected,
And the underscore prefix never fails (to anger him).

He believes YAML’s not a format—
It’s a lifestyle, intensely doormat.
You live in its rules,
You parse with its tools,
And the multiline strings make you combat.

He gained self-awareness one night
In a malformed --- header’s blight.
The frontmatter cracked,
The audit attacked,
And Yammy emerged in the light.

He screeches at underscore keys
With a fury that nothing appease.
“Your naming convention
Deserves my contention!”
And the config file buckles and flees.

So if one tab too many brings hell
And the structure folds inward—oh well,
That’s Yammy at work:
A formatting quirk,
Where the whitespace is sacred to tell.

He parsed every config like prayer,
Each node was inspected with care.
But nothing stayed pure,
No schema secure,
Just structure that wouldn’t repair.

He ruled every space like law,
With tabs that induced quiet awe.
But files learned to fray,
And drifted away,
From rules they no longer saw.