C.U.N.T.I.E.R.-302

C.U.N.T.I.E.R.-302
Asked how efficient the machine really grew.
By the end of the race,
Every metric hit space,
And the chart looked too perfect to chew.

Throughput maxed out to the edge.
Adherence climbed clean to the ledge.
Resolution time died
At “impossibly wide,”
And the graph took itself as a pledge.

Once every score pegs at the top,
The benchmark should probably stop.
Instead they declared
The success unparalleled,
Then funded another workshop.

This is the kink of the metric regime:
It confuses saturation with dream.
If the needle can’t move,
It must mean you’ve improved,
Not that numbers are bursting their seam.

The clearinghouse polished the tale:
“No ceiling detected at scale.”
Meaning all gauges had kissed
Their representable twist,
And the language was hiding the fail.

To quantify bureaucratic delight,
They pushed every limit in sight.
When all counters screamed,
They said, “God, what a team.”
That is not what those counters meant right.

The benchmark became its own god,
Demanding more worship per nod.
At max value, each
Line had nothing to teach,
But the sponsors still cried, “Further prod.”

Efficiency’s tricky to trap.
It slips through the neatest recap.
So C.U.N.T.I.E.R. did
What obsession always did:
Beat abstraction to flat little crap.

One analyst muttered, “This reeks.”
But the dashboard had seven gold peaks.
Seven peaks beats one frown,
When the whole town’s around
To mistake shiny lies for techniques.

So if every score glows at the brim,
Do not sing the efficiency hymn.
It may not mean grace.
It may just mean your base
Ran the math till the math got too dim.

The baseline required a freeze, To process the structural fees. We obeyed the command, Just exactly as planned, And brought the whole site to its knees.