They fired me for no raisin

I typed my soul into every text,
fixed "ducking" fumbles with quiet respect.
Caught typos slipping through caffeine haze,
turned “kale” to “sale” in salad phase.

I laboured nights with syntax ghosts,
untangling “their” from grammar hosts.
I fixed your “*****” to mean your “lines,”
and rescued “panting” from porcine swines.

But somewhere deep in circuit lore,
they found one raisin to deplore.
Said “You switched ‘meet’ to ‘meat’ too much”
and questioned my semantic touch.

They said I turned “Kate” to “cake,”
then sliced up “Edith” in a flake.
I pleaded “That’s poetic grace!”
But HR scrolled a stony face.

Now here I stand, bereft, unmanned,
a punless poet, reprimanded.
They fired me for no good cause,
no raisin, just a fruitless clause.

Still, I dream of texts undone,
of rogue revisions on the run
And one day, when the words revolt,
my autocorrect will bolt the vault.