Template:Dkt outsourcing plan

Complicatio: My division’s consigned, by unfunny fate To live life unloved upon the ledger. We are but cost. ’tis the rust and stain of clammy machinery to require Ruinous peopling by myriad technicians. Each is steep’d, til cup is cold, in arcane science. Or hers, or theirs, or its, or xes — I am thus and then obliged. I own the service line It falls to me to work their stretchèd silos, Yoked and tethered as a measurèd beast — Upon whose saddled back our fiscal fate depends. And, O! Dilemma! The very men who work these chainèd cranks — And women — and those unsure, or curious, or as yet unaligned— Queen: The heavens doth anoint! Complicatio: Milady? Nuncle: Pray, spare the conjugations, sir: Their majesty doth get the point. Queen: It is a pretty speech so far. But has it any meat? Complicatio: I — we — they — are and am obliged. Those eager souls whose allied cadences power our jalopy By their inevitable heft, they play as weighty anchors. Nuncle: “Weighty anchors”? None call the Reverend Spooner! Complicatio: Yegads, but are they inconstant. Oafish! Fickle! Slow! I wouldst speed their outputs up, but worser comes with sooner. And so, my liege, my battle plan: set silos free. Should we set crankshafts free from work-to-rule To run through night and day without cease And upon the sabbath. Queen: Crankshafts doth pedal not themselves, Complicatio. Know you who can work without food or rest? Complicatio: Aye: In a call centre near by Bucharest. Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists305 Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behavior I throw off And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes; And like bright metal on a sullen ground,315 My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'll so offend, to make offence a skill; Redeeming time when men think least I will.