A poem about meeting rooms

What happens when an Oxford-based branch of a faceless multinational tries to be human and quirky:

It would be too dull, said the powers that be,
To name our three meeting rooms “A”, “B” and “C”!
They had consultations, discussions, a vote,
And called each one after a city of note.

This lets an employee cry: “I’m just off home:
I’ll meet you tomorrow, in ‘Paris’, or ‘Rome!'”
And then, once their dutiful laughter subsides,
They look at each other with despairing eyes.

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