Trumped by the Bard

Scene i

An ordinary room in an ordinary house. Except for the presence of books, piled high against the walls, and spilling out in uncontained extravagance over the floor, one could be almost anywhere. In the corner of the room a television is tuned to rolling news, the ticker tape seemingly preoccupied by news from the USA, or the latest Brexit negotiations. Seated rather uncomfortably at the table is a dusty looking man in his fifties, wearing an Elizabethan ruff, peering around in great interest at the contents of the room- and with rather less interest, at the bespectacled English teacher seated opposite him, and wearing a weary, anxious expression…

CF: Now wherefore, bold bard, thou might’st well ask,

Have we, to this age so far removed from thine,

Summoned thee from thy well earned dusty rest

In fair Stratford’s shady-nooked chapel choir?

(Pause)

Well, wilt thou ask or no, sweet swan of Avon?

WS: Right sorry I am, I thought thy question

Mere rhetoric, and intended no reply;

Also, to tell thee true, I still do taste some

Strangeness of this time- across some hundreds

Of years I’ve sped, quicker than Ariel

Or Puck e’er managed, I think,

And my mind’s not yet quite mine own

CF Disturb not thy mind, greatest chief of poets…

WS Stay! Couldst thou settle on a name for me?

Thrice thou hast addressed me, and neither one

Nor two, but three names hast thou already pronounced-

And Will, methinks, is quite enough for me…

CF Of course, but what with you being who you are,

I simply thought a little flattery might not go amiss

WS Flattery? Talk not to me about flattery.

Those sycophantic courtiers, everywhere,

Especially under James- the stories I could tell,

And did indeed when live and well I was…

CF Yes, well, stories are why I’ve brought you back,

Oh mighty poet, fresh from Parnassus’ hill…

WS To thine old foul sin thou fall’st once again-

Remember me! My only name is Will…

CF Ah yes. Well- to be brief- could you, e’en though dead

Four hundred year, take’t upon you to write

A little play for me? I have both theme

And name- Trump it is, and something tragic’s

What I want- what do you say…er, Will?

WS I’m not so sure- thou knowest, it’s been a while…

But- away my doubts- I’ll do’t! In what style?

CF I suppose first a prologue’s what we need-

Something satiric on the theme of greed…

WS Now I’ll close those organs of sense my eyes,

Sway to and fro, and try to improvise…

(Clears throat)

From Trump’s golden towered pomp

He came, all clad in tailored suits of costly cloth,

Flanked by fairest Eastern bride, Melania,

Whose comely face was hard to read, but poised

As ‘twere ‘twixt naked fear and loathing hot,

With at times a glimpse of something darker

An inner emptiness a deep abyss…

CF ‘Tis just as I heard in my dreams, dear Will!

WS In that case, I’ll press on. The norm’s five acts-

Prologue, exposition, a hint of hamartia,

The worm men have inside which leads them to

Fatal fall, usually pride, or hubris;

Peripeteia’s usually next,

When our man-or woman- suffers the slings

And arrows of outrageous fortune-

As I remember writing somewhere else…

Next up’s Anagnorisis- the hero sees

As plain as day the error of his ways;

And last though by no means least, catharsis,

When all depart in awe struck grief at what

They’ve seen- how to doom that mighty King fell…

CF King Fell- I like the sound of that, dear Will

A lost play? No, I know ‘twas not your drift…

Anyway…all would be well that ended

Quite well, had we but world enough and time...

WS By heaven I like that line- is’t yours?

CF Er no, not quite- Marvell- but hear me Will

This Trump’s a thing so sore combustible,

So full of danger to the world, indeed,

So brightly burns his flame that he perhaps

Might consummation find in one act, or at most two!

WS ‘Tis brief indeed! I’ll see what I can do…

Scene iii

The same room, the following day. Shakespeare is finding difficulty in concealing his evident pride and satisfaction as he reads eagerly, and with a noticeable Midlands accent from the sheets he is clutching in his hand. He naturally takes ALL the parts and even reads out the stage directions- honestly, these actor managers… CF is listening attentively, even to the point of disregarding the mug of coffee (decaffeinated) in his hand, whose contents are contentedly obeying the second law of thermodynamics by cooling steadily…

WS Thus much have my labours wrought, and I’ll read:

Chorus See how from the fateful polls of so called

Experts comes the fiend in human form

Men call the Trump, despite its somewhat less

Than pleasant connotations; long o’erlooked

As one whose chance of power was as snow

Upon the desert sand, at best a joke

To be enjoyed by those who hold the keys

Of rooms of state within that house so white

That it doth stand beacon-like or like an

Englishman upon a beach in France; now

See him stand upon the stage, his hair afloat

Like foul Medusa’s locks in howling gales;

Hear him rant and, Leviathan-like, rave,

Newly swum ashore to torment those

Who called him fool, who mocked his hair.

Who scorned his entrepreneurial air

Who said a man of so little brain

Ne’er could in democratic country reign…

CF Excellent good, Will- this chorus tells the tale

So well this play of thine just canst not fail!

I prithee, on again, and show us more

O’ the tedious Trumpian bore

WS (Enter the Trump, escorted by his ministers)

DT Good morrow, learned men of state, for mainly men

Shall sit around me – to which all say amen...

ALL We salute thee, noble Trump, and say amens

And bless this house so free of clucking hens…

DT Now that We in house of white so safely

Are enthroned, my goodly Queen Melania

At my side, or truth to tell just behind

And out of sight; though pleased I am in mind

When Fox News lenses on her fair form alight.

Since in this way I feel a keen delight,

As those who claim’d I ne’er could pull without

My wealth are left without a doubt-

That when I choose to grab myself a dame,

Be she maid or Queen they’re all the same,

My virile manly strength they can’t resist-

Their so called virtues melt like summer mist…

Old, young, fair, dark, short, tall I’ll have them all,

Flying toward me, at my beck and call…

And when I build my wall, my mighty wall,

Care I’ll take to leave a hole just small

Enough for Mexican babes of fairest form

To squeeze through, and towards me crawl and swarm…

(He is lost in reverie for a moment as a messenger enters)

Now, what art thou, thou lowly wretch that dare

To come within my presidential lair?

Art thou from the Press, lying fiends who sneer

And jeer, or an emissary from Czar Vladimir,

Lord of the Eastern world, or perhaps the rebel

English lord, Farage, whose name does little to dispel

My doubt he’s not as English as he sounds,

But from one of those nasty breeding grounds

For islamicists, like France or Turkey

Where whites all have to wear the burka…

(A messenger enters, clearly nervous and trembling uncontrollably)

Messenger Sire, I come as one whose role’s ordained by

Fate and generic tragic rule- someone

Has to bring the news and get things moving

Plotwise, when all you do is talk and talk…

The news I bring shall chill and freeze your blood…

Sire, your court has fled- whilst you did prattle

In sovereign manner didst not remark

That no-one spoke? Unto the rebel Queen,

The foul pretender Hilary, have they flown…

DT Thou speaks untruths, fish faced loon, and thy flesh

I’ll flay, thou so called messenger- no doubt

Th’art in the pay of CNN or BBC…

Messenger But sire, ask for brave Sir Michael Flynn, you’ll

Find he’s on the plane to Muscovie where

The nights are long and as I think my lord

Knows full well, the Russian beds are soft…

DT Enough of that- silence, before I start

Thy manner strange to mock in mimic cruel-

I’m pretty good, thou knowest- didst see me

Nail the palsied wretch who twitched at me…?

Messenger I did, and frankly thought it beneath a King-

But sire, there’s worse news to come- I hardly dare…

Your wife, the good Queen, imperial jointress

Of this goodly state, Melania the fair…

DT What’s she done now? Learned to speak? Made a joke?

Sunk her matrimonial woes in coke?

Messenger No, my liege, to Mexican land she’s fled

Before your wall is built to lock her in!

Other women has she sought, to found

A commune where organic clothing they’ll stitch

And on beans of organic coffee grow rich…

DT Alas, I see it all! ‘Tis a vicious plot,

And I must take to Tweet my thoughts,

Which yet are full of blood and revenge!

(The messenger removes her cloak, and is revealed as the president’s daughter, Ivanka)

But what is this I see? Fairest child girl,

Only daughter, disguised in messenger’s garb?

And what is’t thou hast in thine hand so small?

Et tu, Brute? Woman, thy name is perfidy!

A knife? Help, help, oh help! Where are my men?

Ivanka (for it is she) All fled, proud fool! Not one to hear thy cries,

Nor one to staunch the blood I’ll proudly spill

(She stabs him)

There, ‘tis done, the tyrant’s dead…and neither

Brute nor Perfidy’s my name- some other wife

Or daughter perhaps, but I’m Ivanka called…

(There is a pause. Will has a slightly embarrassed, even guilty look)

WS I thought I’d leave it there- is’t Aristotelean

Enough for thee? Trump has his flaw, his life goes wrong

Because of it, so far so orthodox-

CF Yes but Will, should Trump not see the errors

Of his ways, and accept his fate, before

A valedictory speech whose aim’s to show

He’s learned a truth, and straight to purge all grief

From watching crowds- what you call catharsis?

WS ‘Tis true, true ‘tis, and pity ‘tis true…

CF I know that line

WS Hamlet, yes, indeed…

But this Trump’s a creature so debased, so

Unfit to govern or to rule, that truth

To tell, I just could not make him tragic…

I tried in vain- perhaps I’ve lost the magic…

Since The Tempest’s been a while, thou knowest…

So now, no choice hast thou, scholar; release

Me, let me go, back to the winds, back to

My shady tomb- I’ve done my best to please

But your Trump’s no hero but a disease…

CF Thou calls’t me scholar, Will- and for this I’m

Deeply touched, and now thy request to go

I’ll grant with thanks, feeling somewhat like Prospero…

(WS disappears, to the accompaniment of heavenly music, and the scene dissolves…)