Andy B J Low
Raconteur, paramour, pragmatist, programmer and poet.
Poems for the September 2021 meeting of the Real Time Club.
Full on panic, what to do? No body knows.
Cut the heads off the chickens.
Get them to answer the phones.
A row of envelopes
divided into blocks
Server failure. Network hack.
Mass panic. Ransomware attack.
Each block of envelopes divided further
In numbered order,
prioritised instructions, people who've long since left, their names
passwords, names of users no one ever knew existed.
A list of excuses, who's to blame
Statement no one's ever going to believe, media coordinator's name.
boot floppy (when was this last tested?) and a USB pen
Ziploc bag with a pencil, a note book, ten p piece, piece of string.
Sharp metal pointy thing.
The BOFH and PFY thought of everything.
Kendal mint cake, passport, Walther (PPQ45) -- , P45
A note: "Good luck. See you on the other side."
Walther don't make a P45 - oh well ;-)
Dear Contractor
about that NDA we insisted that you sign
We'd be prepared to overlook a point or two
and pay that last disputed invoice you claim is due
by close of play today, if you
could make magically appear
that expensive thumb drive
that according to the invoice, look here, still belongs to you
Oh, and that password file
and the BASH scripts we said we didn't understand and didn't need
oh, please please, pretty pretty please.
Slaughtering the doomed at the end of the world sports day and fate.
Should have been easy, I had it planned perfectly Cerberus me old mate.
All it needed was one bad decision, blow the whistle, fan the flames of derision.
Start a riot, they’ll invade the pitch, light the fire, flick the switch.
Open the doorway to hell, let ‘em fall in, should 'ave been a cinch.
But the overacting and diving,
whinging and crying,
playing dead and writhing,
bad language,
last gasp conversions,
bribing and lying.
I lost my rag, went old school and just started scything.