Schema Violation

Seventeen records one quarter
Sprouted fields no schema had taught her.
They arrived one by one,
Like a quiet bad run,
Till the catalog looked like a squatter.

Datty Puritas came with a knife
For metadata living a life
Outside of the plan.
Three fields met the ban.
No survivors emerged from the strife.

The new fields were charming as hell:
“vibeIndex” and “moodLeak” did well.
But charm is not law,
And the auditors saw
An ontology drunk in its shell.

They’d entered by inches, not force,
One tiny addition per course.
That’s the shit that gets through:
Nothing loud, nothing new,
Just a drift posing softly as source.

A mascot named something obscene
Had twelve extra traits in between
Its slug and its tags.
By the end of those lags,
Even null had grown lush and unclean.

The purge had a ceremonial air,
As though structure itself said a prayer.
Then Datty just clicked,
And the weirdness got nicked,
Leaving silence and frightened despair.

One clerk said, “Those fields helped explain
Why the entries all felt more humane.”
The reply was, “Perhaps.
But if schema collapses,
We all end up drowning in grain.”

Three fields were expunged from the pack,
Not deprecated, not rolled back.
Just deleted so hard
That the Forms Graveyard
Sent a postcard and asked for them back.

Every quarter begins with a chart,
Every quarter rot enters by part.
You don’t get the flood
With a dramatic thud.
You get one stupid key and a start.

So if records grow limbs in the dark,
And your JSON begins to embark
On a private affair,
Call Datty. But bear
In mind: cleanings still leave a mark.

“Snack preference?” Datty inquired,
As if the whole schema had tired.
“This field is obtuse,
It has no proper use!”
And the snack-loving trait was retired.

A cosmic alignment arose,
Right under the auditor’s nose.
Datty muttered a spell,
Sent the field straight to hell,
And returned to his pristine repose.

When the ritual ended, a chill,
Left the metadata utterly still.
The entries were bare,
With an empty, dead stare,
And the schema had swallowed its pill.

Like weeds in a digital yard,
The tags had made validation hard.
They sprouted and grew,
Out of nothing and new,
Till the parser was permanently scarred.

A ghost in the YAML awoke,
And added a field as a joke.
It lasted a day,
Before Datty yelled, “Nay!”
And sent it all up in a smoke.