It’s good to be a front-end dev, they say with steady grin,
To sculpt designers' fever dreams where users always win.
Each flick’ring CSS delight makes pages look devine—
Until you chase elusive bugs that only ghosts define.
Our tech stacks celebrate we must, and frameworks ever new;
A bundle’s weight in gigabytes will show your prowess, too.
Embrace the endless browser wars, where every spec’s a fight—
For nothing says “I love my life” like coding past mid-night.
Rejoice in every merge conflict, in semicolons' spite—
While front-end bliss is just a lie, at least the pay is...
... quite alright, actually, thank you very much!
It’s good to be a back-end dev I utter with a smile;
The APIs are my best friend; a girl—it’s been a while
The front-end always reads my spec… what, “only in your dream”?
Code, pizzas, dog walks, Google Meet—with little sleep between.
(I cried myself to sleep again—for reveille, I will scream!)
This project’s gone well, just as planned—no budget overrun;
My team are smart, fast turnaround—they’re humble, and they’re fun.
They work as one in harmony, talk always straight and plain;
If not for all this new gray hair, I’d do it all again! (subito!)
(Castel Sant’Angelo can’t make me work with them again! (mai!))
Creatives, don't we have it best? your money for our heart;
In ComfyUI's glow I see my girl dream of my art.
Each time I blink I hear ka-ching—my plan, it cannot fail!
My colleagues @ me, and I know: it's 'cause I've done it well.
(Don't @ me—I already know—and kindly do not yell :-)
I swear I'm sane, as sane as you, as any other man;
I haven't slept since last we met—and yet I dream again.
What of my jacket being straight, what of it being bound?
As soon as orderlies permit, I'll meet you on the ground!
(When deadline's gone, I'm sane again; but y'all still will be blind!)
A Devil's bargain I have made—Pan Twardowski, my friend!
When Turkey rises I will sing her anthems once again.
This is my world, you live here just! "Wow" doesn't pay—you're broke?
Çertik, don't come to have my soul just yet, or you will choke!
How many fingers has your hand, how big your head may be?
I don't want ghosts, my artist friend—it's flash I'd like to see.
Berating us for other's faults, and making us feel small;
But now strange shoes are on the feet of men too short or tall.
Let’s launch! I know, I hear your doubts, but upwards she must go;
Eight fingers when we generate—it’s luck I’ll have you know!
A bigger head? It just means that Unet thought extra hard.
Submit today to Apple, please, and 3-2-1-we-start 🚀