A Parody in the Manner of the Bard
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
DONALD, King of Mar-a-Lago
J.D. VAMLET, Prince of Ohio, heir apparent and Vice-Regent
The GHOST, spirit of a conscience long past
POLLSTERS, COURTIERS, and a CHORUS OF DONORS
ACT I, SCENE I—A gilded hall. Enter KING DONALD, upon a throne of ballots.
KING DONALD: Though yet of Biden our late foe the memory be green, And that it us befitted to bear our hearts in grievance, Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him—Together with remembrance of ourselves. We are, in a word, the greatest king that ever reigned, The ratings biblical, the crowds immense, Such crowds as Denmark never dreamed to hold. Now, cousin Vamlet, and my loyal son —
VAMLET (aside): A little more than kin, and less than thanked.
KING DONALD: How is it that the clouds still hang on thee?
VAMLET: Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun—Which is to say, I stand behind thy shoulder, Forever second in the frame, my lord, The understudy of a play that will not end.
ACT I, SCENE II—The battlements. Enter VAMLET alone. Enter the GHOST.
GHOST: Mark me, J.D.
VAMLET: I will.
GHOST: I am thy party’s conscience. Doomed for a certain term to walk the night Of cable news, and for the day confined To fast in fires of the comment section, Till the foul crimes done in my swing states Are burned and purged away. List, list, O list!
VAMLET: O God!
GHOST: Revenge is his most unnatural—no. Not that. ‘Tis simpler, boy: he never yields the crown. The throne he sits upon he means to keep Until the very ravens quit the tower. The very ravens that shall dine on thine own conscience (if they can find it.) And thou, brave prince, art heir to nothing yet But surrogate appearances in Iowa.
(Exit GHOST.)
ACT III, SCENE I—VAMLET, alone, contemplating the year 2028.
VAMLET: To run, or not to run—that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous polling, Or to take arms against a sea of donors, And by opposing, primary them? To wait—to serve—No more—and by a term to say we end The heartache and the thousand loyal nods That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To wait, to serve—To serve, perchance to reign—ay, there’s the rub; For in that second term what dreams may come, When I have shuffled off this understudy’s coil, Must give me pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long a wait; For who would bear the whips and scorns of tweets, The great man’s contumely, the proud man’s shove, The pangs of praise deferred, the podium’s delay, When he himself might his own quietus make With a mere announcement? Who would ratings bear, To grunt and sweat beneath a borrowed spotlight, But that the dread of something after Donald—That undiscovered country, from whose bourn No former veep returns—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear the boss we have Than fly to primaries that we know not of? Thus, a dearth of conscience doth make loyalists of us all; And thus the native hue of my ambition Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of not yet—And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of front-runner.—Soft you now! The King, my patron.—Sire, in thy orisons. I hath given my soul to thy service.
(Enter KING DONALD.)
KING DONALD: Loyal? Tremendous. Nobody more loyal. Believe me, folks—the most loyal number two In the history of number twos. It’s true.
VAMLET (aside): The lady doth protest—no, that’s the other play.
FINIS (of this scene, for the rest is spin.)
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