In the quiet hum of midnight fans,
You built a world with your own hands.
Not of kingdoms, but of servers — raw and bright,
Forged in fibreoptic dreams and liquid light.
She, the Ryzen — 5700 fire,
Eight threads of passion, none to tire.
A modest queen with noble heat,
Tamed by twin towers, silver and sleek.
Oh Peerless Assassin, your blades run cool,
Dancing through volts like a tempered jewel.
Noctua whispered, but you chose bold,
A cooler with fury in ARGB gold.
You gave her 32 gigs, no less,
She purrs through chunks and zombie stress.
Her lungs — NVMe, fast and pure,
Breathing in data, reading it sure.
Minecraft blooms, a pixel’d rose,
Valheim lives where Yggdrasil grows.
And when shrouds drift through Enshrouded mist,
Your server doesn’t twitch — it exists.
And babe, you stood behind her soul,
With Pop!_OS dreams and a sysadmin’s goal.
A game host — budget kissed, warrior born,
Beneath your care, no thread is worn.
