3 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 1 Scene 2

                  Alarums. Tumult. Ruckus. Shattering of plates. Trumpets strike up Hail to the
                   Chief. Enter Caesar, Laura, Roveus, Cheneyus, Lynna, Scooterus, Rummeus,
                      Ashcroftus, a soothsayer

Caesar:             Friends, fellow Americans, countrymen, lend me your ears!

Will S.               O pox! The Bushie Caesar is fulfilling my worst fears
                         Not now, you twit! Nor thou! Thou jump’st the sword
                         With speech a tad untimely, twatty lord.
                         ‘Tis not until Act three or four indeed,
                         So don’t fast-forward thus with undue speed.
                         Nor is it thine to speak, you bumbling fool   
                         McCainus has this great rhetorical tool.

Vox populi:        Nor is it ears he needs that we now lend,
                         But all our gold his deficits to end

Caesar:             O oopsus! Poxus. Silly us, forsooth,
                        We do so love that speech and its fair truth,
                        That scarcely can we wait…

Cheneyus [aside]:                                     We? Us? His mind
                         Deludes itself with grandeur of such kind
                         That e'en great Jove would don not.
[turning to Caesar]                                                 Welcome home,
                         My Lord, to this, thine own sweet personal Rome.

Caesar:              And thou, O Rovie, hast thou now devised
                         A show to mask our lies with facts revised?
                         Stratagerem to back strategerie…

Wordsmith:        ‘Sblood! Zounds! Our language suffers buggery.
                         The vilest butcher strikes again our tongue,
                         The serial murd’rer turns gold words to dung.

Caesar:              A spectacle to stun with imagery?
                         The question is: is the Eye-raqis free?

Grammarian:      ‘Tis plural, fool, ‘tis are, not is, ole mate!

Caesar:               Whatever! Let a circus now elate
                          The beating hearts of our conserv’tive base.

Rovius:               Indeed, it will, my lord, thy shining face
                          Upon the Lincoln, smirking in prime time,
                          In photo ops to beat the Demmy slime
                          In next year’s polls ads, under giant sign
                         ‘Mission Accomplished!’ Let their hearts now pine!
                          And even more, with helmet of top gun,
                          Though Dad did fight in war but not the son,
                          Wilt thou appear the ult’mate alpha male.
                          And even though the Lincoln doth now sail
                          But yards from coast, the cam’ras we will train,
                          To justify your landing in a plane, 
                          Far out to sea, e’en as we now delay
                          Its journey home so that you now can play
                          As superman. 

                                               Trumpet sennet
                             
Caesar:                                        Oh bully, Rovie, you’re,
                          Doing a heck ‘f a job, just give me more! 
                          Set on and leave no ceremony out, 
                          That gives my reelection added clout.

                                             Renewed sennets

Rovius:               Forsooth, I will. My devious mind doth toil…
                                                       
                                      Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:          Did you say devious? Let us now talk oil.
                          With Halliburton's tasks, both small and large,   
                          In Eye-rak none can beat our overcharge.
                          Prophets of profit are we, fully knowing
                          How to bulk up tenfold all that is owing.
                                                       
                                              Exit sponsor 1

Soothsayer:        Caesar.

Caesar:                           Aha, who calls?

Rovius:                                                  A lowly seer.

Caesar:               Cries Caesar?  Speak! Caesar am turned to hear.

Grammarian:       Odds bodkins! Here ‘tis is, not am, you fool.
                          Third person used for self follows that rule.

Soothsayer:         Beware the Ides of March!

Caesar:                                                       Beware the brides?

Wordsmith:          Oddsbodikins! A verbal woe betides!
                           He mangles even as he echoes words
                           And glorious lines transforms he into turds.

Caesar:               What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again.

Soothsayer:         Beware the ides, not brides, of March, birdbrain!

Rovius:                Birdbrain say’th he? How dare he show such gall!

Caesar:                All Gaul into three parts, without a wall,
                           Divided is - I wrote that - like Eye-rak
                           With Sunni, Shiite, Kurdies back to back.   

Wordsmith:          No, not that Gaul, but gall, you tin-eared fool!
                           That’s Gaul, but this is gall, you piece of stool!

Caesar:               Then say it once again, full loud and clear! 

Soothsayer:         Of coming Ides of March do thou have fear!

Caesar:               He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.
                              
                             Sennet. Exeunt omnes line-dancing to the strains of Land 
                              of Hope and Glory, except Cheneyus and Rummeus                        
                            

Rummeus:           And may it be he falleth on his arse!

Cheneyus:           What say’st thou, Rummie? That he get the chop?

                                                            Flourish and shout

Writing C.             Say not these word, I prithee Will! Stop, stop!             
  [panting]            Thou knowest not that, even in a jest,
                           The FBI will fain make great arrest
                           Of thee, the Secret Service too? So joke
                           No deadly harm unto the Bushie bloke!
                           'Tis just as if at airport, just in fun,
                           Thou said'st: 'say guard, I have a bomb, a gun.'
                           For any word that could thus seem a threat,
                           Though jest or fiction, will with force be met.

Will S.:                I knew not, no; for in the past I wrote
                           Of people further in the past of note,
                           Macbeth, Hamlet and Caesar One; so then
                           No fear of hurt or harm restrained my pen.

Writing C.            Ah, Will, those were the days, but now be still!
                           For in his fever Bushie taps thy quill,
                           Without a warrant from the Court, forsooth;
                           For to the Constitution he’s uncouth.
                           Thus death must we redact out of the plot,
                           And daggers, too, stabs, gore, e’en mere blood clot.

Will S.:                But, writing coach, how can I? My best lines
                           Come only when their beauty death defines.
                           ‘O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?’  

Writing C.            I know, my dear, it is a nasty blow.
                           But now revise the plot and try to scan…

Will S.:               ‘Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
                          ‘That ever lived in the tide of times…

Writing C.            Out, out! That too must go, and all those rhymes.

Will S.:                They rhymed not then, I told thee…

Writing C.                                                            Hold thy peace,
                           Lest even now his quill-tapping release
                           The FBI, that we regret our birth.

Will S.:               ‘O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth!’

Writing C.            O, pox! Repeat not that. E’en now I feel
                           The piercing deadly thrust of G-men’s steel.
                           Guantanamo awaits us if you write
                           Of daggers sturdy and of deadly blight.

Will S.                 But what assassination can replace?

Writing C.             I have it. We can save our hide and face
                           If we replace manslaughter in each speech
                           With bloodless tranquiliser like impeach.
                           Thus Gitmo we avoid should he detect
                           By tapping thy blest quill. For us protect
                           The First amendment and its many clauses.

Will S.                Alas, you give my play the menopauses.
                          But be it so. So let us now proceed.

Cheneyus:           What means this shouting? Do we now indeed
                           Hear cheers e’en here from Lincoln’s deck unfurled?

Rummeus:           Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
                           Like a Colossus, and we petty men
                           Walk under his huge legs as in a den
                           Of lions, his huge legs…

Cheneyus:                                               Eee-ew, how gross!

Rummeus:            In truth, it makes me now indeed morose
                           That we cannot control him as we did
                           When first with judges’ nod past Gore he slid.
                           The fault, dear Cheney, is not in our stars,
                           But in ourselves, that sit we on our ars…    
                           Why should that name be sounded more than yours,
                           Caesar than Cheney? Let it give us pause
                           For action now to stop his coronation
                           To cut him down.

Cheneyus:                                       Mean'st thou assassination?   
                      
                                               Flourishes and shouts; police sirens in the distance

Writing C.             Oh, Will, sweet Will, remember what I said  
[breathless]          No stabs, no blood, no Caesar effing dead!
                           Just cut him down to size, or else we go
                           You, me, posthaste, pele-mele unto Gitmo.
                           In ev’ry speech, impeach, impeach, impeach!
                           ‘Tis our last chance. I do thee now beseech.

Will S.:                 Ooops! Sorry, my mistake!

Cheneyus:                                                             …to clip his wings
                            In Congress, bloodless, with impeachy things?
                              
                                            Enter Caesar and his train

                            The games are done, and Caesar is returning

Rummeus:             Like rotten food this gives me bad heart burning
                                                           
                                         Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:            Take Nexium, the super purple pill,
                            For gastroesophagealic ill
                            And heartburn, bellyache, acid reflux.

                                                      Exit sponsor 2

Caesar:                What mean'st? Heard I just now Hassid refux?
         
Writing C.:            Gadzooks! He bringeth in a Jewish cult.
                            Each ev'ry phrase he butchers.

Will S.:                                                                          Oy gevalt!
                            You see, o coach, I've learned the modern tropes
                             From thee; I know the yiddish, hip-hop ropes.
          
Caesar:                 McCainus!

McCainus:                                Caesar.

Caesar:                                                   Lo, without McC
                            Nicknaming-fond I dub, just Anus be!   
                            Let me have men about me that are fat
                            And such as sleep a-nights, too tired to rat.
                            Yond Rummeus has a lean and hungry look.
                            He thinks too much. According to my book
                            That is not good. Such men are dangerous

McCainus:            Fear him not, Caesar.

Caesar:                                                  Art thou sure, Anus?

McCainus:            As sure as sure can be.

Caesar:                                                   I fear him not.

McCainus:            For ‘tis with us that he hath cast his lot.

Caesar:                 Would he were fatter, though! But as a pawn
                            He used me first. Now that I am reborn
                            As alpha male, his love hath turned to scorn.
                            But, come, ‘tis nine; before night turns to morn
                            Let’s hie from here!

Vox populi:                                       Upon his house a pox,
                            For he unleashed through lies Pandora’s box
                            Of Goya’s horrors ‘f war painted in oil…
                       
                                    Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:           Did I hear oil? Halliburton the soil
                           Doth rake and rape and torture till we find
                           The precious liquid that we have in mind
                           To ship on no-bid contracts to our troops
                           At hundred times the price.

Cheneyus:                                                   Keep quiet!!! 

Sponsor 1:                                                                     Oops!

Cheneyus:            Speak not too fully of our beauteous scam.
                            It must be hid in secrecy, this sham
                            Lest public knowledge prove a true game breaker.
                            So cross your hearts as I cross my pacemaker.
                             
                                                                      Sennet. Exit Caesar and his train,
                                                        but Ashcroftus remains behind. Exit sponsor 1    

Ashcroftus:           You pulled me by the cloak. Woulds’t speak with me?

Cheneyus:             I would’st, but I forget lines one through three.
                            Ah, yes! What chanced on Lincoln by the coast
                            That he on every lip is now the toast?

Ashcroftus:            Why, he did pose and posture like a king
                             With smirks and shoulders swinging, swaggering,
                             A-strut; but for a shining kingly crown
                             Had he a top-gun helmet fleeced with down.
                             The crew thrice cheered, as on the Lupercal,
                             Ev’ry last man and child and ev’ry gal,
                             The whole damn rabblement, the tag-rag horde.
                             As I do speak the truth, or on my sword
                             Let me now fall!

Rummeus:                                      And Fristus, did he speak?

Ashcroftus:            Aye, speak he did, but t' me it was all Greek
                       
                                     Alarums. Tantrums. Enter Caesar, frothing    

Caesar:                 Not Greek, but Grecian! See, I know my grammar!

Will S.:                 Out, Bush! ‘Tis not thy time. Into the slammer
                            Put him until Act two Scene Two!

Caesar:                                                                      See, mate,
                            My skills they do misunderestimate

Wordsmith:            If you have tears, prepare to shed them now,  
                            Ye muses, for our language struck so low.

Will S.:                  How comes he here unprompted by the text?
                             I am afeared of that which might come next.
                             My cast doth come to life, like Frankenstein,
                             Recasting, uncontrollable, each line.

                             Out, out with him!


Writing C.:                                         Out, out!

Wordsmith:                                                       Out, out!



Grammarian:                                                                    Out, Out!


Caesar:                  Ow! Ouch!


Writing C.:                               Take that!


Wordsmith:                                               And that!

Grammarian:                                                           You saucy lout!
 
Caesar:                 Hands off, base knaves! Unhand me!

                                                 Sennet. Stagehands drag Caesar off, snarling
                                                                                          
Rummeus:                                                                     Ashie, wilt
                            Thou sup with me tonight on fish gefilt?

Ashcroftus:           No, I am promised forth.

Rummeus:                                                 Then wilt thou dine

                            With me tomorrow night at half past nine?

Ashcroftus:           Ay, if I be alive. Hast chicken broth?

Rummeus:            Good golly, yes!

Ashcroftus:                                    I’ll come then. Farewell both.

                Exit Ashcroftus, draping a naked statue of Justice with his toga, and mooning the audience   


Cheneyus:            What a blunt fellow is this grown to be!
                            So slow of mind and hand. No busy bee!
                            He was quick mettle when he went to school.

Rummeus:            This tardy form he puts on just to fool.
                            This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit
                            Hidden beneath appearance of a tit.

Cheneyus:            So be it then. Tomorrow let us gather
                           That I may ken more fully thy mind’s blather.

Rummeus:            Indeed!  
                             
                             Exit Cheneyus, falling over forum wall and clasping pacemaker

                                        Well, Cheney, noble art thou now,
                           The ship of state, pray, take it by the prow!
                           And after this, let Caesar know it sure;
                           For we will shake him, or worse days endure.
                                                         
                                            Exit Rummeus, cackling like a witch
 

2 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 1 Scene 1

    Enter Hastertus, Delayus and certain Commoners including a Carpenter and a Cobbler

Delayus:            Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
                         Think ye that Washington’s become a Rome
                         That on a labouring day ye labour not?
   [aside]            Oh, Lord, who wrote this effing crock of rot!

Will S.:   .          ‘Tis I. Carp not! Let's carpe our diem,
                         And do thou now such pesky questions stem.
                         For ere, forsooth, comes dark'ning end of day
                         Wilt thou see fine and clear where wends our play.

Delayus:            And thou, foul commoner, what is thy trade?

Carpenter:         Why, sir, a carpenter.

Hastertus:                                         Then to thy spade,
                         Saw, chisel, plane, whatever, hie thee hence
                         From welfare, and thus earn a poor man’s pence.

Writing:             Hey, Will, what gives that each two lines do rhyme,
Coach:              When not thus didst thou do in ancient time?

Will S.:              The doublet rhyme gives emphasis and stress
                         To imbecilities and senselessness.
                        

Delayus:            But, to the point! And you, what trade are you?

Cobbler:            Why, sir, a cobbler, born and bred and true.

Hastertus:          A gobbler? Gobble me, thou naughty knave!

Delayus:           No, Denny, cobble with a C. A slave
                        Art thou to Freud forever with thy slips!

Hastertus:         Gadzooks! From C to G is but four blips.
                        But to the point, base knave, why art thou not
                        Within thy shop today?

Cobbler:                                               Have ye not wot?
                     
Grammarian:    ‘Tis ‘witen’ in this past tense.

Will S.                                                       Shut thy gob!
                        He speaks the tongue of some illit’rate slob.
                        Or morrow, ere we carpe our diem,
                        Will dawn.

Cobbler:                            Wot? Witen? That today, ahem…
                        The Bushie Caesar doth return today
                        From great campaigns victorious far away
                        In nucular-free Eye-Irak, o’er world holds sway.

Vox populi:       Our pax is gone! Our pox is come! Oi vey!
                       The Bushie doth so ramble, stumble, yak
                       That black is white, quoth he, and white is black.
                       And now in triumph doth he dare parade,
                       As false as any triumph that he made
                       O’er blood of Gore, these three years hence withdrawn
                       From craven Court, unto his wiles a pawn.
                       Such blunderings do cause our heart to burn,
                       And with them even more for Gore to yearn.

                                                           
                                 Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2
             
Sponsor 2:      And now a word from our dear sponsor comes:
                      Thine heart doth burn, forsooth? Then just take Tumms.
                      Thou belch’st, thou eructate'st, thou burp’st too much?
                      Let Tumms sublime now oil thy gastric clutch.     


Will S.:           What is this interruption vile and foul,
                      That makes me want to go and move my bowel?   

Writing C:       O Will, thou art indeed in evil mood,
                      Thou snapp'st, thou bark'st, yet ads like these put food
                      Upon the table.

Will S.                                         Yes, my mood is vile
                      Sith thou hijacked my play and raped my style,
                      Thus conning me to turn my ancient verse
                      From gold to Bushie-isms, even worse.
                      Thus wouldst thou have me take my greatest plays
                      And massacres inflict ‘pon them in ways
                      To make them correspond to modern tales
                      With which they have much less than whales with Wales
                      In common. Thus wouldst thou I shoehorn in
                      The Caesar's play each ev'ry Bushie sin.
                      I cannot and I will not poison thus
                      My verses’ nectar with such toxic puss.

Writing C.:     Thou will’st, thou must’st; thou canst do it, I knowst.

Will S.           'I knowst?’ Base varlet, why, thy grammar’s toast.

Hastertus:       Stop bickering, you two, like man and wife.
                      For me this is the best role of my life.
                      Just let the play go on; I want to shine.

Delayus:         Me too, forsooth, my role's e'en yet more fine.
                      You two, like hissing pussies, interpose
                      Your petty quarrels. We will you depose.

Will S.            Shut up, you fools! I am the great decider;
                      I'll boot you out ere snide remarks get snider.
                      O writing coach, our actors now rebel;
                      I'm quitting, zounds, so let them go to hell.

Writing C.:      O Will, sweet Will, please stay, please stay the course;
                      In writing plays, thou'rt nature's greatest force.

Hastertus:      Yes, stay on, Billy; let me say my lines.

Delayus:         Me too. I need the cash to pay my fines.

Writing C.:      He doth, sweet Will; he's gone and done some wrong
                      And Abramoff now sings th' canary's song.

Delayus:         In all the realm there is no finer toff
                      Than mighty billionaire Jack Abramoff,
                      Who for my golfing trips abroad doth pay,
                      And I the green light give and say okay
                      To all his clients' gambling interests,
                      Thus swelling all th' casinos' treasure chests
                      Of Injuns, pale faces. I offset
                      The threat from gambling on the internet,
                      By blocking actions, bills within the House.
                      And he affords much ducats for my spouse
                      For no-show jobs, and for my noble daughter
                      Likewise more glinting ducats than he oughta,
                      That I should ban the web-based competition.
                      Did this in Tom Delayus seem ambition?

Will S.:           Stop! Stop! Thou jump'st ahead, foul bunch-backed spider,
                      The pages gummed together, thou leap'st wider
                      To scenes and acts ahead, nor is it thine
                      To parrot that  renowned iconic line.

Delayus:          Oops! So I did; my bubble-gum did glide
                       From mouth to play and glue the text inside
                       Unto act three scene two.                          

Will S.                                                   Enow! I quit!
                       O writing coach, I thank thee for thy wit,
                       In teaching me new slang like toff, putz, schmuck,
                       But I must go forthwith. I wish the luck.
                       Thou wouldst that I do take the Caesar’s gold
                       And turn it into dross, as if I’d sold
                       My soul unto the devil, say white’s black
                       And black is white, a bard no more; a hack!
                       How can a tale of woe, of noble grief
                       Be changed to talk of Bush? I would as lief
                       Return unto my grave, for e’er around
                       To turn, ere I had left that sodden ground.
                       How could I thus abuse, pervert my verse!

Writing C.:      Why, Hollywood each day doth do much worse
                      In bringing to the screen true facts from life
                      In which no fact, with falsities so rife,
                      No single fact, not even one, doth hew
                      To anything that’s even halfway true.
                      And when they take a book to represent
                      Upon the silver screen, not one event
                      Doth represent the book writer’s intent.
                      Gone with the wind, my friend? The wind gone went.

Will S.            Well, since I’ve left rotating in my grave
                      To come once more upon the stage, a slave
                      To chronicling the foibles, flams and flims
                      Of humankind, I will indulge thy whims,
                      Since I did rent thee t’ keep me up to date
                      On all that’s new, the slang, the utmost late
                      Of latest trends, pop culture, all I’ll need
                      For fanciful allusions in each screed.
                      But still the doubts beset my own sweet self
                      About true adaptation.

Writing C.:                                            From the shelf,
                      As I have told thee, Hollywood a book
                      Doth take to turn to film without a look
                      At what the substance says; so must thou now
                      Adapt Caesar anew without a bow
                      To the original. An Oscar too
                      Will be thy great reward the less it’s true.


Hastertus:        Please, please, O Billy, let's get on with th' play

Delayus:          Yes, please dear Bill, please let me have my say.

Will S.            These whoresons vile, I'll let them all proceed
                       But why the Tumms and sponsors do we need?

Writing C.:       If thou want’st backing for thy plays, my liege,
                       Then let the adman's message thee besiege!

Will S.             We need the ducats, yes, but choose a time
                        For ads that do not interrupt our prime.
                        Now on great Julie's world we ring the knell
                        And transform all into the Bushie hell.              

              Exeunt omnes in different directions singing America the Beautiful  

1 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar - Dramatis Personae

BUSHIUS CAESAR
LAURA, his wife
KARLUS ROVIUS, servant to them

DICKUS CHENEYUS
LYNNA, his wife,
SCOOTERUS, their servant

DONALDUS RUMMEUS                        Patricians who with Cheneyus
TEMPESTA NORTONA                            who conspire against Caesar
JOHANNUS ASHCROFTUS   

BILLIUS FRISTUS                                         Senator

DENISUS HASTERTUS                               Representatives
TOMASUS DELAYUS

JOHANNUS McCAINUS                           Would-be ruler in Acts 4 and 5    

GEORGIUS P. BUSHIUS                         Caesar’s nephew and adopted son

PAULUS WOLFOWITZUS                     Servant to Rummeus
               
A Soothsayer
A Cobbler
A Carpenter

Will Shakespeare
Grammarian
Wordsmith                                                   All in the wings throughout
Writing coach
Vox populi

Sponsor 1: Halliburton
Sponsor 2: Pharmaceutical industry