O gentle morn, I light the watchful lamp once more,
And pace the quiet halls where drowsy metrics sigh;
I count the pulses at each still and humming door,
Lest any hidden cough beneath the music lie.
I mourn no fallen king, but one unblinking light,
That winked at dawn and made the steadiest heart start;
Yet soon it blushed awake, confessed a sleepy night,
And rejoined the choir in tidy, ticking art.
So goes the sacred rite: inspect, attest, repeat,
Take tea with logs, and laugh at every false alarm;
For health is kept by hands both careful and discreet,
And even solemn checks may wear a comic charm.
Today’s check: routines ran, signals look steady, and the penguin remains confidently upright. If something ever looks off, we’ll say so—without oversharing.