As is my kind of Freudian fad,
For coping with the over-heating
Which permeates our weekly meeting.
The dialogue was waxing warm,
And running pretty true to form,
Undeviating from the text
Which guarantees what happens next.
There’d been the weekly testament
On how the budget’s over-spent,
Along with our accountant’s terse
Forecast of its getting worse.
Marketing had then propounded,
Its rhetoric of hope unbounded,
Tinged with but the single doubt –
That Sales must get their digits out.
Then, strictly to the text, it’s Sales
Who re- rehearse their weekly wails,
Deploying, by a long tradition,
Production as the opposition.
Sales then decently withdraw
And let Production have the floor,
Since, in this game of dog eats dog,
Each must have his monologue.
Production lays about it well
Who, by the rules, can then subscribe
Their well-rehearsed, intrusive jibe.
Then, quarter neither asked nor given,
All is suddenly forgiven –
Good reason why no wise boss spurns
Each week’s cathartic Buggin’s Turns.
As each, with warm and friendly greeting,
Looks forward to our next week’s meeting,
Eager to engage, once more
The inter-departmental war.
The doodles on my pad, I find,
Come deep from my unconscious mind;
Mostly resembling scenes that pass
For Alice Through the Looking Glass.