Twenty-five minutes left
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Conference Call Anatomy™
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Triago: Good colleagues: there are but twenty minutes left.
Wouldst you thy precious time reclaim;
Or may we keep afoot our infinite game —
With more, or any other, business? Search anew,
What items canst be tabled without ado?
Gloucester: Nothing sire.
Kent: Nor from I.
A period of silence around the table.
Queen: (Aside) That irksome twerp.
A world of richness awaits this piffling parley.
Triago: How say you, brave Herculio?
What agenda fodder doth the gods portend?
Herculio: The gods? The gods? Methinks you jest.
Th’almighty has no use for paltry conference.
Triago: I think he does, sirrah!
Queen: Oh, ho! How so?
What matters lie upon thy parchèd record
That be yet unbeknownst to sacred mind?
Whose cogs and toothèd gears
Whose immaculate escapements
All history — gone and yet to come — defined?
What need hath she, or he
Who bid the lion lay with lamb
For this dismal convention?
Nuncle: Thou maketh me to meet —
Therefore I am.
Triago: How should I know, my Queen?
How should I know?
Queen: Quite so, good sir, quite so. I must away.
Maketh thou the time-ball drop.
Exit Queen
Herculio: With all my heart, my Liege —
One has to hop.
Exeunt
A remark, if uttered on an industry call, worthy of an assassination attempt. The usual context is “okay, well done everyone, we have got through the agenda quickly today; we have twenty-five minutes left. Has anyone got any items they would like to raise?”
“Only the wall against which you will be shot come the revolution, chump.”