Glengarry Glen Shakespeare

The Lamentable and Piteous TRAGEDY of GLENGARRY, Glen Rosse, as Performed by the Admiral’s MENNE before his most Serene Majesty, James, of that name the First in England and of the Sixt in Scot-lande, on the Feast of St Andrew, Anno Domini 1603

Prologue

Enter Money, painted full of coins

Open your ears; for which of you will stop
The vent of hearing when loud Money speaks?
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still control
The acts commenced on this ball of earth:
And when I speak you jump, I know’st well:
For me, thy parents and yourself
Did in your shorts did tremble, and went all afoot
In scorn of summer’s heat or cold of winter’s night.
Behold now this crew of certified sots
Shall divert your weary evening hours,
And relieve you of the price of your fair admission,
That you may see the downfall of merchants.
For not marching now, with kings upon the bloody field,
Nor shall you see Timur Leng
Amaze the welkin, whate’er the hell a welkin is,
With high astounding terms of noble repute.
Instead behold base commerce, and perceive
How in such a low and dreary round
Men are overborne by Fortuna and astound
That their shabby schemes have no issue but drear and dusty death.
In this play, gentles, a Levene shall take the furthest fall
For in Adam’s fall, we sinn-ed all,
And earn our keep by losing sleep
Our daily fare comes from thinning hair.
Look upon his Doom, but shed not a tear:
He was a scumbag who failed the Lord to fear
And lest ye stray from decency
Attend to our Play with ear and eye.

Act 1

Sc 1: a low Office

Blake:
The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
The sun hath crept its course and night falls
The owl, foul harbinger of doom,
Doth croak, and the churchbell hath told of eight.
Are all your troop here, or do any stray?

Williamson:
Only Roma ’tis, for him we stay.

Blake:
Let him go, I’m going anyway.
Right, you lot, losers, jerkoffs, scumbags,
Lend me your ears. Talk’st thou of sales?
Of loss and sad mischancing?
I care not, for I’m talking of important things
As important as the fall of princes, or the death of kings.
Put that coffee down.

Levene:
How now?

Blake:
You think I dally with you, you villain vile?
Coffee is for closing men, not men like thee!
From downtown come I but not to spy,
I come from the noble Mitch and puissant Murray,
And Lemkin himself, a merchant of fame and renown
Which you clowns shall never be.
Call’st thyself Levene, o Hebrew Jew?

Levene:
Verily, your worship.

Blake:
And call thyself a salesman, merchant, thou?
Mechant thou art, thou liest in thy teeth.

Moss:
To put have I not with this shitte!

Blake:
That’s right, you don’t, for there’s the door thou scum:
We add a new twist to this month’s contest:
Behold, the first of prize is this, a set
Of steakish knives with which you can slay thyselves,
The prize secundus is for toasting cheese:
Third prize will us pleasure and you unplease:
Third prize is thou’rt fir’d, terminated and let go
Oh now do I have your ears, and now you know,
That it’s time to fuck or time to walk,
Time to cowboy up and talk the salesman talk,
And time to sell howling wastelands wild
To bankrupts and to wastrels in accents mild.
Relieve thou the widow dressed in weeds that mourn
Of her savings and her home, this thy doom:
And smash the bright hopes of newlyweds,
Rendering their sweet concord naught
But cursing cries and deep exclaims,
Penury, poverty and worthless demesne.
So Murray doth command, and so doth Mitch
And great Lemkin says, do it, bitch.
‘Tis Time to find your manhood if ye be men,
Time to sell estate that is real, to say amen:
To get them signing on line that is dotted
Which anyone can do if not like you besotted.

Levene:
The leads O they are but weak and frail
How can men sell from this, a garbage pail?

Blake:
Weak are they, you fishwife drab?
Weak are you and not even a man
Know what do I can?
I can go and with the leads you’re given,
Sell them all and make of Hell, a Heaven.
Lo, out there in Chicagoland
Multitudes of losers gape and stand,
In queues they wait, to give you money!
Are ye a man enow to take it or are you funny?
Behold, Glengarry leads, worth all the gold in the world,
And you don’t get them, for to give them to you
Would make me the base Indian
Who threw away a pearl greater than his tribe.
To be, or not to be, always closing, that is not the question:
Whether it is nobler that in the mind you suffer
And give the sucker the break that is even,
I care not a diddle, dot, or fishwife dram.
Thou’rt a good father? Fuck you, go home,
To hovel, and dandle them on your knee
Whilst they with piteous moan and cries
Say “Father, why brought you home no prize?”
Go sit in tavern filled with smoke of pipe,
And say “I once was a salesman, it is a tough game”.
O close, and the treasures of the Indies are thine
If you don’t, the worst leads are but pearls, before swine.
Close, dogs and dregs, and the money is yours
Otherwise I got no sympathy for you as homeless, you scratch your sores.

Sc 2. The Same

Enter Levene and John Williamson

Lev:
John, o John, o John:
The noble leads of Glengarry Glen Ross,
You’re sending Roma out, ’tis fine, ’tis well:
We all know what Roma is, a man of parts,
But all I say is this: prithee, wait,
He throws the leads away, thou’rt wasting leads.
I dare not tell thee how to run the shop,
But prithee, things get set and set in stone,
I know full well they do: and you get set in mind:
A man like me reputation gets, and is thought a hind.
All I say is this, send a close and closing man
Out into the customer’s land: there’s more than one
Man to see the job done. Thou needs’t a proven man,
Send a seasoned man of mettle out. And watch,
Prithee listen, the volume of the dollars earned,
And not base ‘centage, for volume thou hast spurned.
Then you start closing them for fifty, and not twenty five:
Pleasing the thanes, Mitch and Murray, making thy business come alive.

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