For every dev who’s ever slept beside a crash log

Behind me rest the beasts of code long past,
Arrayed in rows like tombs of syntax lore—
The Camel, terse, still guarding structs steadfast,
The Penguin curled by Bash’s rusted door.

The Owl, aloof, recalls one viral feat,
While XML the Turtle sighs in tags.
The Ferret (sed) and Gopher (awk) repeat
A pattern known to only cronjob nags.

Yet here I sit, with JSON in my lap,
A gnome nearby, adjusting moss and flair.
I type in blocks, while whispering, “No map?”—
But still, they blink. Their logic fills the air.

The joke, I fear, is gently set in stone:
These creatures outlive all who called them home.