Madame Atropos?
That’s correct.
Of Necessity’s three daughters,
you fare the worst in world opinion.
A gross exaggeration, my dear poet.
Clotho spins the thread of life,
but the thread is delicate
and easily cut.
Lachesis determines its length with her rod.
They are no angels.
Still, you, madame, hold the scissors.
And since I do, I put them to good use.
I see that even as we speak . . .
I’m a Type A, that’s my nature.
You don’t get bored or tired,
maybe drowsy working nights? Really, not in the slightest?
With no holidays, vacations, weekends,
no quick breaks for cigarettes?
We’d fall behind, I don’t like that.
Such breathtaking industry.
But you’re not given commendations,
orders, trophies, cups, awards?
Maybe just a framed diploma?
Like at the hairdresser’s? No, thank you.
Who, if anyone, assists you?
A tidy little paradox—you mortals.
Assorted dictators, untold fanatics.
Not that they need me to nudge them.
They’re eager to get down to work.
Wars must surely make you happy,
what with all the extra help you get.
Happy? I don’t know the feeling.
I’m not the one who declares them,
I’m not the one who steers their course.
I will admit, though, that I’m grateful,
they do serve to keep me au courant.
You’re not sorry for the threads cut short?
A little shorter, a lot shorter—
Only you perceive the difference.
And if someone stronger wanted to relieve you,
tried to make you take retirement?
I don’t follow. Express yourself more clearly.
I’ll try once more: do you have a Higher-Up?
. . . Next question please.
That’s all I’ve got.
Well, goodbye then.
Or to put it more precisely . . .
I know, I know. Au revoir.