Hie thee hither that I might pour my spirits in thine ear
On all that impedes thee from the Oval Room.
Thane Axelrod summoned me today to betray my nature
But follow my sense, when I say, my liege:
What’s done is done. The enterprise is shot.

In the past, thou hast found in me a woman of fell purpose
But, my Lord, screw your courage. We could fail.
Safer, no doubt, to name a hale successor,
One quick of wit and sharp of tongue.

You talk of the witches’ prophecy—that thou shall be promoted twice—
And repeat it as sharply as an owl’s scream. Speak not again.
You make thyself a hoarse raven, and God knows
We need none of that right now. Take thy DayQuil and listen:

These witches three know not of what they speak.
They cannot predict thy future station.
Their projections change by the wind like Lady Alito’s flags,
So full of hollow pageantry and too easily moved.

Was the hope drunk
Wherein you dressed yourself?
Hear ye not warnings from the Witches of CNN, MSNBC?
Just Monday past, thou hast sipped the frothy brew of Morning Joe.
Was it not bitter? My lord, the milk of human kindness has run dry.
E’en the Grey Lady doth cast a pallor on thine name.
Thy castle is not safe, no mind the arrows that thy pretty Hunter shoots.

And on this purpose, art thou the one with worms in thine brain,
That thou would let thine felon offspring curl up
So close to the seat of power? Mine own memory said
’Twere the idiot spawn of Kennedy with this malady,
But I’ll say no more, for fear we both go mad.

I hear a knocking: it’s reality. Wilt thou answer?
Come! Come!
’Tis too risky to leave the palace unguarded,
Lest the craven, deranged orange King
Once more seize the crown.
He is himself a snake!

I’m thoroughly unsexed, of which I’ve made no secret, but on this account,
I wonder if the woman you once chose might be the man you seek.
(The K-Hive, at least, would spring to her defense.
This seems to be the betting market’s sense.)

Thou hast served admirably and bravely trekked
these Scottish moors from the tides of Delaware.
The people delighted in your bromance of yesteryear.
And what’s done cannot be undone.
So take thy burnished medallion and purple ribbon
And enjoy it in thine leisure,
Sovereign Grandfather, Dark Brandon.
You lack the season of all natures: sleep.

Lord! Lord! I didn’t mean this instant. Sleep no more!
Your drowsy eyes harken the sorry sight
Of that unrepentant tyrant
Who could not keep wide his gaze
Even through the Storminess of Daniel.

I will endeavor once more to earn thine ear,
as the Highlands bloom so fine this time of year,
Thou shalt be received with ample celebration,
A victory tour to stir envy in the hearts of all.
Consider it not so deeply, and rest.

… It seems you remain unmoved as a tree.
Prithee, I might dash my own brains out—
Out, Out! I want out of this damned spot!

I pray you, Lord, leave none of this to me.
Nought’s had, all’s spent. I wash my hands of thee.