Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,

Not a user was using ... not even a mouse;

The programs were hung from the bugs in their code,

In hopes that a guru would soon cure their woes;

The data were nestled all snug in their beds,

While versions of software danced in their heads;

The boss dimmed the lights as I locked up my desk,

A couple days off and a well-deserved rest;

Then all of a sudden there came such a clatter,

I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the processor I flew like a flash,

What a terrible sound .. like a massive headcrash;

The lights they were blinking and beaming aglow,

The hardcopy printout said "Let service know!";

When what to my wandering eyes should appear,

On a silicon wafer ... a field engineer;

A little device driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Chip!

More rapid than Macro, his cursor insane,

He whistled and shouted like a video game.

Now, Pascal! Now, Basic!, Now, Fortran and Cobol!

On RPG! On PL/1, On Dibol and Snobol!

To the top of the registers, the bottom of core!

Run diagnostics and see what they store!

As memory leaves when electricity flies,

The 'Rep' cracked a smile and loosened his tie;

He was chubby and plump, said the place was a wreck,

And I laughed when I saw him (in spite of high tech).

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He was dressed from his head to his feet in a suit,

His briefcase was heavy with tools to re-boot.

With bundles of bits bulging out of his slacks,

He looked like a pro 'bout to fix a blown pack.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Reseated PC boards, then turned with a smirk;

Hit return with his finger and said "Here it goes,"

And giving a nod, into the CRT he dove.

But I heard him exclaim, 'ere leaving the site,

"Restore the data, and all will be right!"