A tribute to the prompt that starts it all
Before the code, before the run,
There stands the sentinel: PS1.
A blinking mark, a path, a sign–
The thin front line of command-line.
You greet me with a dollar bright,
Or # when wielding root's full might.
With colors set through bash escape,
You wear your ANSI like a cape.
A username, a host, a dir–
A hacker knows they're truly here.
You change with cd, morph with ssh,
A shifting guide, both bold and fresh.
Some tweak you with a Git branch charm,
Or load you up with system alarm.
You're minimal, or overblown–
From zen-like dots to status shown.
No IDE, no mouse, no chrome–
Just PS1. Just text. Just home.
So here's to you, the prompt we trust,
Who waits for input, never fussed.
All journeys start with you, old friend–
A command, a pipe, a loop to end.