Template:Strange negotiation

With profound apologies to Wilfred Owen. Honestly, I am really sorry to do this to you.

It seemed that from that conference call I escalated
Some profound dull representation, long since waived
Through credit whose dyspeptic permission granted
Though caveated teeth, a route to our sweet resolve.

Yet also there encumbered assets groaned,
Too fix’d in charge, or pledge, or lien to be reused.
Then, as I probed the liens, one sprang up, and cried
With piteous recharacterisation in his eyes,
Lifting distressèd claims, as if to clarify.
His speculation tanked, I made that margin call,—
Absent limit, all doubt avoided: we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that doc-jockey’s face was grained;
Yet, no Representations (to which Part 3(c) applied)
Reached there from where our career aspirations died,
And no covenants thumped, in extent or scope inordinate.
“Strange friend,” I said, “I see no incoming credit support.”
“None,” said that other, “save this unperfectèd charge,
The hopelessness. Whatever beneficial interest I hold,
Was title to this wretched asset flawed?
Were’st thou by my tax attorney’s explanation bored?
Her expertise lies not in thought, nor deed, nor tedious phrase,
But mocks the steady drifting of one’s gaze,
Toward the floor — the wall — the sky —
The whole entropic all.

And if I grieve, I grieve for wasted words:
Cast carelessly about, in clumps and hanks of twisted flannel —
Carve-ins, carve-outs, carve-ons; carve-unders strewn about
In fractal spumes: a paradoxic annal.
For, by my glee, might many lawy’rs laugh,
At my double negatives. That ditch, in which I thought
I would not lie,
I must now die.
And so expired — marked-down — the option cruelly tamed:
The bid price of war, the offered war disclaimed.
No key man shall have a NAV trigger pulled onced waived.
And should one follow, modified, and be saved.
Execution will be swift, regardless of the TARGET.
None will break their cost of funding though their change in law.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the text of this redacting world
Into vain inclusos that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”