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Ingrazio: Good Queen, your humblest servant is beset around
By fiendish trials of others’ making.
Our staff are alive with fury.

Queen: How so?

Ingrazio: The antics of these o’er paid hirelings
Whose fancy pantaloons sing songs of uncommon luck
Unearnèd and not deserving
In the minds of thy rankling loyalists.

Queen: I see their point, Ingrazio:
Your new privateers have shown good skill
From hand to mouth with our meat and drink,
But less adeptness with the shoulder.
For all your talk of growing pies
They do a fine job making smaller.

Ingrazio: I am, my liege, obliged
For your accommodation of my point.

Queen: To a point, Lord Ingrazio, to a point.

Ingrazio: M’lady surely sees the problem?

Queen: That she does, and who’s its owner.
He stands afore me.

Ingrazio: What’s mine is yours, my liege —

Queen: Aye, but only as a second-loss.
Yours first, good sir.
Now: what is thy petition? Speak it quickly.

Ingrazio: My loyal men grow restive!
We must apace reward their patient service
’Ere, with disjointed snout, they quit the field—

nuncle: —Pasture, methinks, Ingraz.
And none more green —

Ingrazio: —And leave thy majestic shores
Bare guarded by these interloping halfwits!

Queen: We must what?

Ingrazio: We must compete! Raise their pay!
This daily war for talent is intense.
The necessary investment is immense.

Queen: Gah! Who is this fellow?

Nuncle: Cometh not the man, cometh yet the hour.

Queen: We cometh not down in the latest shower.