The Technical Writer's Lament

a Shakesperean sonnet

When in disgrace with software engineers, I all alone beweep the redesign, Of interface and face the deadline fears, Foreknowing that the blame will be all mine. To move each menu item every day, To satisfy some ill thought change of spec, And shuffle all the tabs as if to play A game of cards, with just a partial deck. Each tiny tweak betokens a cascade, Of faults, like moths that relays have entrapped, Until production schedules are delayed, And with a crown of scorn my brow is capped. I wait to hear the knock upon the door, To tell me that they've changed the thing once more.