In the valley of Cursor, where code is divine,
I summoned my agent with prompts clear and fine.
“Type with precision,” I boldly declared,
“No ‘any’ allowed, or you’ll soon be ensnared.”
I gave it a file, where types were defined,
I whispered, “Infer them, dear friend, be aligned.”
I wrote sacred laws — a whole page of commands,
“Do not use ‘any’, use the types close at hand!”
But lo! Like a ghost, it returns once again,
A shapeless, wild type — my semantic bane.
No matter the prompt, the context, the rules,
The AI keeps treating my codebase like fools.
“Oh ‘any’,” I cry, with a keyboard-bound tear,
“Why are you still showing your face around here?”
Each line that you touch, each prop you invade,
Turns my beautiful typings into a shadowy grave.
I dream of a world where typeof prevails,
Where interfaces ride in on strong, typed details.
But for now I must wrestle, refactor, and groan,
Undoing the sins that the model has sown.
So if you see me, hunched, muttering low,
Typing as or screaming at unknown,
Just know I once asked — with all of my might —
For the AI to simply get the ■■■■ types right.