Dopamine Trap Rabbit Diet

They measured success till the ceiling gave way,
Till the dopamine trap stole another day.
They called it “Measure-Ceiling,” their proud new creed,
Where hitting targets became the only deed.

In Rameni town, they set the goal,
To live richer, brighter—under one control.
Not passion’s fire, but the cunning mind’s decree,
Must be the trump card—so the policy said gaily.
The more lines they wrote, the heavier the load,
And a high rating mattered more than any flag or road.
Each beast, on the way to the market, would repeat,
“In life, my friend, it’s the dopamine we eat.”

Oh, Measure-Ceiling, who dreamed you up so fine?
You’re the proxy proxy, the ideal of the sign.
It’s the law of economics, twisted round and bent,
Goodhart’s Law, but played in reverse—a curious event.

The economic sages, ignoring every flaw,
Nodded gravely, squinting at the charts they saw.
“Look how the minimum wage keeps on swelling day by day—
That’s our well-being’s flight, so let us cheer and say!”
While the beasts quietly gathered what they could afford,
Whispering in their hearts about the growing hoard.
Thinking in the shadows, trying not to fret,
“Maybe we should just forget this rabbit-diet yet.”

But old Owl, a lover of the ancient lore,
Shook the dry pine needles from his wing once more,
Said, “Happiness has always had a simple rule,
One that nature gave us—steady, calm, and cool.
Forget the schemers’ bright initiatives and schemes,
The rabbit-system won’t resolve our deepest dreams.
It’s time, my friends, to fold these measures all away,
And turn our eyes to what life truly needs today.”

Oh, Measure-Ceiling, who dreamed you up so fine?
You’re the proxy proxy, the ideal of the sign.
It’s the law of economics, twisted round and bent,
Goodhart’s Law, but played in reverse—a curious event.

They stripped the metrics out, with care and steady hand,
And wove risk and reality into the new command.
In Rameni, the birds began to sing with clear delight,
Far from the clatter of bureaucracy’s endless fight.
They forgot the forest’s norm and all its anxious score,
Instead they saw the colors, felt the wind once more.
Even the rabbit, stepping out upon the road,
Nodded and said, “I trust the truth. It’s finally showed.”

Oh, Measure-Ceiling, who dreamed you up so fine?
You’re the proxy proxy, the ideal of the sign.
It’s the law of economics, twisted round and bent,
Goodhart’s Law, but played in reverse—a curious event.

This ballad’s not about reports or numbers’ parade,
It’s about an honest step—no tricks, no hidden trade.
How the forest learned to breathe again, and find its way,
From proxy-measure back to work and daylight’s sway.
Let Measure-Ceiling rest in some dusty archive’s hold,
As long as we remember what real labor means, behold:
We won’t trade the bright world for a negative’s shade,
For life’s not measured by the charts the wonks have made.

Oh, Measure-Ceiling, who dreamed you up so fine?
You’re the proxy proxy, the ideal of the sign.
It’s the law of economics, twisted round and bent,
Goodhart’s Law, but played in reverse—a curious event.