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Amid continuing allegations that President Trump has committed impeachable offenses, Hamlet weighs in with a new soliloquy. For best effect, read with vigor and a grimace. — Jeff Balch
To ’peach, or not to ’peach, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The tweets, and barrels of outrageous horsesh*t,
Or to bring forth articles against the dean of troubles,
And by opposing, end him. To stop, to tweet
No more, and with no tweeting say we end
The headaches, and thousand unnatural shocks,
And fluffy hair too. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To end, t’impeach –
T’impeach, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub:
For in post-impeachment sleep what dreams may come,
If we have shuffled off one amoral spoil,
Which gives us Pence – there’s the prospect
That makes calamity of ended strife.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Trump,
Th’ aggressor’s wrong, the proud man’s derision,
The unrequited self-love, the law’s abuse,
The insolence of office, and the scorn
That toleration of th’ unworthy invites,
When we ourselves might quiet him at last
With bare rejection? Who would this burden bear,
To moan and wince amid the storm of tweets,
But that the dread of something after Trump –
The unredeeméd country, from whose shadow
No citizen returns – puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the mess we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.