Shakespeare’s Trump, Act II, Scene I

The Blue Room. Enter MARK ZUCKERBERG and CHORUS.


A friendship is an action. Forging links,

Our hammers jones to smith a better Earth,

To open close connections, storing winks

And laugh-masks into calculus of mirth.

I cultivate communities in sphere

Of sapphire. In my vision, red is green;

Azure is deeper, tranquilizing fear,

And making cloudless summer sky of screen.

Its oxygen flows free. Let ev’ry voice

Fly fleetly, let empower’d persons’ thumbs,

Like Roman emperors’, give life by choice

To circuit circus acts as each one comes.

Our role is but to feather-fluff the people,

To aim their souls at th’welkin, as a steeple.


Through Zuckerberg’s and likewise blue-ting’d visions,

All social contracts have been thus remade,

With blindness to the inly red divisions

That crack when thoughts are sifted out by shade.

If red be green, then dolors dollars are,

And rage’s reach brings billions from afar.

Exeunt omnes. Enter KAREN with CORIN and CORINNE, fellow women of means.


Hard judgment oft I meet. I know not why.

My checkout girls roll eyes in insolence,

Denying my own clout as customer,

The hierarchy of importance that

Keeps order civil. Managers I find,

But scarcely half our conversations lead

To satisfaction mine, and half of those

Are yielded grudgingly. I teach my babes

To trust the six in seven o’er the one,

To count majority as truth, but if it be,

Am I then burthen, burr in others’ sides?

Would merrymaking come if, pluck’d, I lay

As carrion ’neath cairn, in Charon’s care?


Let not uncaring thoughts un-Karen thee,

For haters ever hate, as a is a.

Thy best revenge is living thy own truth.


Pale mothers are the true minority,

Attack’d by childless harridans at left

And rightward by misogynistic brutes.

Deserts are yours. Stand up to stake thy claims.

In doing so, thou standest for us all.


I thank thee for thy reassurances.

To find myself again, endurance is.

Exeunt omnes. Enter BAXTER, a white supremacist, and BOXER and GREGOR, all three in Confederate-flag garb of various kinds.


I find my days unoccupied of late,

Dolce far niente ’til my job returns,

As under Trump it must. Thus funemploy’d,

I seek diverting travels. Do ye know

Of places whither I might flee my cares?


’Tis to misfortune I go, not away,

As Pilgrims to the parlous seas did sail,

Pursuing faith not found in comforts lost.

For Charlottesville in name harlot conceals,

And city planners sell their virtue cheap,

Removing history and heritage

T’appease the petty statue-smashing sulks.

Now signs, now flags, now monuments may fall.

My brother, stand with me to honor those

Who gave their lives on both sides of the cause.

Let our ancestors’ blood be not forgot.


I, Bixler, pledge my heart to Baxter’s words.

It seems our USA no greater threat

Shall face than its own rootless populace.


Upset I am to see old symbols raz’d,

But counterprotests, I have sometimes found,

Empurple me to my ensuing grief.

My heavy hands should not be careless-swung.


Oh, aye, nonviolent force is our sole means.

Thy muscularity shall only serve

T’discourage those who’d answer words with swords.


A bully legion, they. We must prepare,

For as our President so often saith,

“Should any smite thee, smite back twice as hard.”

I’ll see you there. Defend free speech we must.

Exeunt BOXER and BAXTER.


I shall be there in spirit, clouding fact,

As brothers their old war do reenact.

Writer of comics, crosswords and all manner of things.

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