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.