12 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 4 Scene 1

         Enter McCainus, Georgius P. Bushius and Hastertus

McCainus:        ‘Tis meet we meet. Hail, welcome, Georgie P!

Georgius P.        Is that an order? Some spot drug test?

McCainus:                                                                   Gee!
                         Zip up at once, post haste, thou preppy fool!
                         It is thy second name, now hide thy tool!
                         'Tis P for Prescott; after great-grandad
                         They named thee, not the P for pee, dumb lad!
 
Georgie P.         And all these years I thought it was for bladder
                         That they did dub me, not for great-grandadda


Will S.:              Ye gods! The fam’ly genes do persevere
                         And they will out despite my verse, I fear.
                         Unto the third gen’ration God did shout
                         A-visiting he’d go. Here ‘tis borne out.  

Writing C.           Fear not, sweet Will, I will a plan forthwith
                         Devise with grammar-meister and wordsmith
                         To counter thus our anguish.

McCainus:                                                      Let’s divide
                         Prestige and power when we override
                         Poor feeble Chenie. Let us now defuse
                         All those who may our rise to pow’r refuse.
                         Do thou, Hastertus, to the House make haste
                         And all our foes and say-nays do thou waste.
                       
                                Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:         Who runs the waste disposal in Eye-rak
                         For all our troops? ‘Tis us, great us, we’re back!
                         At Halliburton yet again we did
                         Gain lucre-loaded contract sans a bid.
                              
                                                      Exit sponsor 1

Hastertus:          Then I will off to expedite our plan.
                       
                                                   Exit Hastertus

McCainus:         This is a slight, unmeritable man
                         In worth if not in girth, but our context
                         Doth need his status’ pretext, since he’s next
                         In Constitution’s predetermined line
                         On ladder’s lofty climb to pow’r divine,
                         Sith after Chenie, first in line as Vice,
                         The speaker of the House picks up the dice.
                         So thus we use him, but it is not fit,
                         The threefold world divided, he should sit
                         One of the three to share it, he and we,
                         So his use used, we off him, Georgie P.    

Georgie P.:        Another drug test? Pass the urine cup.

McCainus:         No! P for Prescott, not for pee. Zip up,
                         Thou blithering twat-wit!

Georgie P.:                                            Oh, I see your point,
                         That we us two ourselves alone anoint.

McCainus:         Amen! But first united we confront
                         And thwart, all three, the Chenie-Rummie stunt.

Georgie P.:         Let us do so, for we are at the stake
                          And bayed about. Let’s move, full speed, Chrissake!

                                   Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:         The greasy steak is baying at your bowels?
                          Take Pepto Bismol now to soothe your howls.
     
                                            Exit sponsor 2
                       
                     Exeunt McCainus and Georgie P., dancing the Macarena

11 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 3 Scene 3

                       Enter Will Shakespeare and Writing Coach in a tizzy
            
Writing C         O, Will, we have a problem mighty grave.
                        Act 3, scene 3, let’s ditch, we cannot save.
                        For into this, our updated straightjacket,
                        No way can we torment th' ironical packet,
                        Wherein we played the trick of Cinna’s name,
                        Conspirator and poet named the same.
                        And Cinna poet faced the lethal ire
                        Of rabblement, not he that did conspire.
                        Our Cinna to Nortona did we change,
                        Too hard, I think, to bid thee rearrange.
  
                                 Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1
         
Sponsor 1:        Did I hear ‘hard to bid?’ We are the king
                        At Halliburton of the no-bid thing.
                       
                                       Exit sponsor 1

Will S.              Too right! Though new game could we play with Cinna,
                        Since each and ev’ry man here is a sinner,
                        From Bushie Caesar, Chenie, one and all,
                        To Ashie, Fristus, Anus, they should fall.
                        But with Nortona, ‘tis a fun brain-bender
                        To fit her since Cinna we did transgender.
                        She never met an industry polluter
                        Whom she did not clasp to her bosom. Shoot her,
                        As they did tear Cinna from limb to limb,
                        Mistaking him the poet for t’other him.
                        Now who could we Nortona thus mistake,
                        That tree-hating big business-loving flake?
                        But too complex, you’re right; let’s dwell no more
                        On this brain-teaser. Onwards to Act 4!

                           Exit Will Shakespeare and Writing Coach doing a do-si-do

10 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 3 Scene 2

               Enter Cheneyus, Rummeus, anchors before host of TV cameras

First anchor:     The noble Chenie is ascended. Silence

Cheneyus:         Romans, countrymen, lovers, heard me…
                         
Will S.:                                                                     Wrong tense!
                        Ye gods, he too becomes linguistic slob.
                        Doth language-slaying now go with the job?
                        Once pure, his language falters fast. ‘Tis hear,
                        Not heard, O Chenie. For our tongue I fear,
                        If he the Bushie Caesar follows so
                        In slips and bloops.

Writing C:                                      Give him another go.               
                        Perhaps it’s nerves. He’ll get into his stride,
                        Perchance his tongue will make a better ride.

Cheneyus:         Impeached was he for his naked ambition.
                        For this we carried out our sacred mission.
                        Who is so base that would a conman be….

Will S.:             And there he goes again! Oi vey for me!
                        ‘Tis bondman, knave, not conman. From the Bush,
                        Who language oft extracted from his tusch,
                        I did expect such horrors; but from those
                        Who grammar-wise and language-wise in prose
                        And poetry spoke true… Cancel the play.

Writing C.         Nay nay, I say, nay nay, nay nay, nay nay!
                        For persevere we must. Do thou discount

                        The Chenie solecisms howe’er they mount,
                        And let grammarian or our wordsmith
                        Correct, that we miss not essential pith.

Will S.:             So be it! For as quotes go, naught of note
                        Gave I to Brutus Chenie to misquote.

Cheneyus:         Not that I loved the Bushie less, but more
                         Loved I the constitution. When I saw
                         He was prepared to undermine its rights
                         To freedom, privacy with oversights
                         Illicit, clandestine, without a court
                         Full granting all the warrants as it ought,
                         ‘Twas then I knew I must stop the dictator.
                         What’s more I know well how to spell potato,
                         Not like some dumb-arse Quayle…

Will S.                                                                      Abominator
                         Of all my verses, Bushie imitator!
                         Adlibbing, changing lines, thou incubator
                         Of malapropos, Frankenstein’s thy pater.
                         Nowhere put I potato, Quayle; this spate o’
                         Foul foreign drivel’s thine. Sooner than later,
                         Wrote I, ‘tis meet to end the Bushie, data
                         So clear and to the point, but thou didst cater
                         To fevered improvising, false translator.
                         His muse, o writing coach, do terminate ‘er.

Cheneyus:          I need to show as Vice no bumbling slouch
                         Am I as was the Quayle. Ouch, ow! Ow, ouch!
     . 
        Sennet, alarums, scuffles. Exit Cheneyus, kicking, dragged by Writing Coach and Grammarian
           
First anchor:      Live, Chenie, live! Bring him in triumph home!

Second anch:    Great speech! He is the people’s metronome.

Third anchor:     Let him be Caesar. Caesar’s better parts
                         Is he. In war on terror he imparts
                         Determination.

Fourth anchor:                          Here McCainus comes.
                      
                                             Exit Rummeus. Enter McCainus

McCainus:         Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your beers…

Will S.:              Alack! Ye gods! It’s worse than my worst fears.                   
                         Zounds! ‘Sdeath! Straight-talker’s caught the Bushies, too.
                         It’s spreading virulently like bird flu.
                                                    
                                              Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:         O Will, cheer up! Contain thy discontent!
                         ‘Tis but the time for thy Maalox moment.
                         ‘Tis true, yond Anus gave a nasty turn,
                          But take a pill or two for thine heartburn,
                          Or three or four or five of great Maalox!
                       
                                                Exit sponsor 2

Will S.:               A plague on all our sponsors, and the pox
                          On all our characters. ‘Tis ears, not beers.

McCainus:         And yadda, yadda, yak… if you have tears
                         Prepare to shed them now… Caesar did love
                         Chenie full well, looked up to him above,
                         Sought his advice for each and ev’ry mission,        
                         Did this in Bushie Caesar seem ambition?
                         Yet Chenie cast the vote for his downfall.
                         He is the most unkindest slut of all.

Will S.:              ‘Tis ‘this’ not he, and ‘was’ not is, and ‘cut’
                         That I did pen where he did put foul slut.
                         The spreading Bushie bird flu runs amok
                         Chenie, McCainus, now they all upfuck
                         My virgin copy. I’ll ne’er e’er be back
                         In third millennium Washington. Alack!
                       
Writing C.         Be stout of heart, sweet Will, do nothing rash
                         Grammarian and Wordsmith will them bash
                         Into good shape for future shows, you’ll see.
                         Do stay in Washington! Please do not flee.

Will S.:              Alright, I’ll wait to see another day. 
                         Now let’s get on with poxing effing play!

Grammarian:      But wait a mo, sweet Will, thou too didst make
                         A boo-boo, for unkindest should not take
                         A ‘most’ since ‘tis a full superlative
                         That needs no more. Who says ‘most best’?

Will S.:                                                                               Forgive
                         Me, marry, if I dub thee crock of shit,
                         Since in my day we learned in English lit
                         That, though scarce scant grammatical, for stress
                         Is licit usage, not a verbal mess.
                         Now if y’all wish and will that I should stay,
                         Shut up y’all and get on with poxing play.

McCainus:         Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
                         To mutiny that with this bitter cup
                         Yond Chenie did reward such love. Yet more,
                         Were I to tell the love that Bushie bore
                         For y’all, you’d rise. I speak it not. And yet
                         ‘Twas the most greatest love I’ve ever met
                         I am no orator, as Cheynie is,
                         No twisted mouth, nor disingenuous wiz,
                         But as you know me all, a plain blunt man
                         That coined the well-known phrase ‘O, yes we can!’

Will S.               Adzooks! McCain adlibs, appropriates
                         Obama’s lines from future play, backdates
                         My Obamello masterpiece. O coach,
                         Remove the malapropping base cockroach!

      Sennet, alarums, scuffles. Exit McCainus, kicking, dragged by Writing Coach and Grammarian

First anchor:      McCainus nine, old Chenie nil, I think,
                         In that contest.

Second anchor:                         Indeed, Chenie did stink,
                        While Anus stoutly did the heartstrings pull,
                        E’en if all that he said was utter bull

Third anchor:    I do concur. McCainus played the hand
                        Of great emotion.

Fourth anchor:                             Chenie, he was bland.  
                      
                      Exeunt anchors, singing the Chipmunk Song. Re-enter McCainus,  followed by messenger

Messenger:      Octavius Georgie P., youthful nephew
                       Of dear departed Georgie W,
                       Hath disembarked upon this sacred ground.

McCainus:       Where is he?

Messenger:                           At the Bushie’s main compound.

McCainus:      And thither will I straight to visit him.

Messenger:     I’ll take thy message thither verbatim.

                                             Exeunt omnes, dancing a fandango

9 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 3 Scene 1

       Flourish. Enter Caesar, Cheneyus, Rummeus, Ashcroftus, McCainus, Nortona, Scooterus in drag,  soothsayer and other senators and petitioners

Caesar:              The ides of March are come.

Soothsayer:                                                    But not yet gone. 
                          Count not thy chickens ere they’re hatched upon.
                          Beware the ides of March, my lord, I say.

Caesar:              You can’t fool me, for ‘tis already May.

Soothsayer:        Don’t be a pedant now; so give or take
                          A month or two. Beware for heaven’s sake!

Caesar:              There is an old saying in Tennessee –
                          I know it is in Texas, probably
                          In Tennessee that says, fool me once, shame     
                          On – shame on you. (Pssst! Val’rie Plame’s the name)
                          Fool me, err err, you can’t get fooled again.

Vox populi:          You adage-mangling ass, you are insane.
                          'Tis thou that leak'st the name of Madame Plame,
                          As thou dost follow through thy dirty game,
                          Discrediting all those that prove 'tis fake
                          To claim Saddam sought Niger's yellowcake
                          To build atomic bombs. The CIA
                          Prohibits naming agents' AKA

Soothsayer:         O Caesar, listen! Diss me not! Alas!

Caesar:               Yo mama is so fat, to round her ass
                           You need to make two trips.

Writing C.                                                     You penned, Will, there
                           Such smut?

Will S.:                                        I did not put that in, I swear.

Caesar:               My Poppy taught me that to twit my Mum,
                          With words not preppy, but from some Bronx slum.

Will S:                Not only doth he mangle what I write
      `                   He adds, adlibs at will, turns day to night.
     
Caesar:               Yo mama is so fat, I have to ride
                           A fast train just to get on her good side.

Writing C.           Control him, Will!

Will S.:                                          I can’t, he’s worse than Newt.

Scooterus:           O Caesar, take this letter, ‘tis my suit.
                           Delay not, Caesar, read it instantly.

Caesar:               I quoth, as Poppy taught me mordantly:
                          Yo mama is so fat, fattest I’ve seen,
                          So crap-full, she's a true mobile latrine.

Writing C.            Ye gods, o Will, whatever shall we do?

Will S.:               Aha, his gaze doth focus, sane anew.

Rummeus:          What, urge you your petitions in the street?
                          Come, Caesar to the Capitol tout de suite!
                       
                          Caesar goes forward, the rest following    
                                                  
Cheneus:            Trust not McCainus, Rummie! His straight talk
                          Doth mask a hundred twists, nor does he walk
                          The walk. You think that he is walking tall?
                          No way, my friend! He weaves, a true curveball!
                          Forsooth, is he with us or Caesar still?
                          Who knows? Adzooks! Let’s move him down the Hill.

Rummeus:          Indeed, o wise one, king of twist-mouthed guile,
                          I’ll get Fristus to seat him way down th’ aisle.
                                      
                                 Exeunt Fristus and McCainus

Cheneus:            At last we do approach; the time is nigh
                         When we wish Bushie Caesar ciao, goodbye.
                       
                                     They reach the Capitol

Caesar:             Are we all ready? What is now amiss,
                        That Caesar and his senate add to this:
                        Friends, Romans, count…

Will S.:                                                    Not now, you stupid twerp
                        That struts the stage like poxing Wyatt Earp!
                        Why dost thou this to me? They’re not thy lines!
                        Can’st not e’en read the teleprompter’s signs?
                        But let us try to reason with him, coach,
                        That to the play’s main nub he might approach. 

Writing C.        Brutish is he, but animally shrewd.
                        Let’s try again now, Bushie!

Caesar:                                                        OK Dude!
                        We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,
                        We coalition of the will…

Will S.:                                                     What others
                        Will he drag up fore’er? Wrong day! Wrong play!
                        That’s not the ides of March, that’s Crispin’s day!
                        And King Bushie the Fifth that is, you fool!
                        Dare not again my text to overrule!

Caesar:            Gadzooks! To be or not to be…

Will S.:                                                             Ye gods,
                       How can a man and brain be so at odds.
                       That’s Hambush, scurvy dolt; nor is it meet
                       For now, but for your last election feat 
                       When for a month thou knew’st not if wast bent,
                       To be or not to be our president,
                       Until the Court, Supreme in idiocy,
                       Resolved to undermine democracy.

Writing C.       Do follow now the Bushie Caesar text!
                       Let each succeeding verse lead to the next.
                       It’s like the constitution that you swore
                       In vain t’ uphold; you ought t’ obey the law.

Caesar:           I’m Bush! But me no buts, ought me no oughts!

                                    Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:      For spots and moles and zits and anal warts
                      Meet Dr. Zizmor, as seen on TV,
                      The dermatologist, by Jove, for thee!
                       
                                       Exit sponsor 2

Writing C.      Ignore him, Will, and let us skip a page
                      To where we terminate him.

Will S.:                                                       Thou art sage.
                      Thus will we save our play, give it its due.
                      Move on, move on now, Fristus, ‘tis your cue
                     
Fristus:           Speak, hands, for me! Beyond our idle speech
                      To action now! To vote and to impeach!
                       
                            As Fristus’ hand stabs up, the others’ also rise; Cheneyus casts the 
                           decisive vote.

Caesar:          Wet too, Chenie?

Will S.:                                      Of all the lines he doth upfuck,
                      Most famous of them all, the brainless, blith’ring schmuck!
                      Et tu! Et tu! Et tu! Now cease my lines to maul!

Caesar:           Et tu, (by George, I’ve got ‘t). Et tu, Chenie? Then fall,
                      Caesar.

Will S.:                       At last, thou butcher ‘f grammar and of tongue,
                     Thou poxing alchemist of golden verse to dung,                
                     At last, thou foul defiler, bumbler excellent,
                     Of malaprop the king, in bloops incontinent,
                     At last thy poxing effing role doth end!
                          
                                  Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:    Incontinent? Wet, too? Then use Depend!
                    For fitted briefs, for adult pampering,
                    For tamping up sly moisture’s tampering,
                    Use thou Depend! Go free thyself forth-hence
                    From bladder and from bowel incontinence!
                    Do thou protect thy front and thy back end,
                    Lock fluid away with gathers! Use Depend!
                       
                                              Exit sponsor 2

Writing C.    At last Chenie’s the chief - an evil tongue,
                    But language-wise upon a higher rung.

Grammarian: His verbs, his syntax most grammaticus

Wordsmith:   His words and phrases most scolasticus.

Vox populi:   Methinks that they must be sarcasticus;
                     His cogitation is most spasticus. 
                     But Bushie’s end let us now celebrate
                     That from misusage doth emancipate
                     Our ears. For Bushie’s gone, that I vouchsafe,
                     And now at least verbs, grammar, words are safe.

Rummeus:     Take thou the message to the rabblement
                     ‘Liberty, freedom and enfranchisement!’

Cheneyus:       Ay, that I will. Ambition’s debt is paid
                      When puppet o’er the puppet-master laid
                      A shadow.
                       
                          Exeunt omnes dancing a samba, except the conspirators

                                      Where's McCainus?
                                       
Rummeus:                                                     Fled amazed
                      Unto his house.

Cheneyus:                                Now, ere the cry is raised
                      Of ‘Peace, Freedom, and Liberty,’ let’s sluice
                      Our arms in Caesar’s bloo… I mean peach juice.

Rummeus:       Stoop then and sluice. Now every man away!
                      Chenie shall muster our progress to sway
                      The citizens.
                                                  
                                       Enter McCainus

Cheneyus:                          McCainus, hail and hi
                      To thee!

McCainus:                    O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie…
                      But wait, his power is gone, my fealty too.
                      Yet of these greatest lines I sing a few:
                      O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?

Cheneus:         I told you, Rummie, is he friend or foe?

McCainus:      Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils

Rummeus:       Indeed, beware him, lest our plans he foils

McCainus:      Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well

Rummeus:       Accost him, Chenie, force him now to tell.
              
Cheneyus:       Be thou with us, O Anus!

McCainus:                                                Just explain
                       The reasons for your act.

Cheneyus:                                              We will, quite plain
                       And clear, tonight TV-wise.

McCainus:                                                  I’m with you
                       Then. But a favour grant! Let me speak, too!

Cheneyus:        You shall, McCainus.

Rummeus:                                        Cheyn’, a word with you.
[Aside]            Do not consent. You know not what you do.
                       Know you how much the people he may move
                       And thus derail our plots from ill-oiled groove?
                       
                                Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:       Thy groove is rusty? Then our oil, good grief,
                        To rusty plots will bring instant relief.
                        Hall'burton is almighty god today
                        Now that our former boss holds supreme sway.
                                                                       
                                                          Exit sponsor 1

Cheneyus:         Fear not, for first and foremost will I speak
[aside to           And make it known that from us did he seek
Rummeus]        The right thus to deliver all his rot.

Rummeus:         I know not what may fall. I like it not.

Cheneyus:         McCainus, in your speech, do not blame us;
[aloud]             No murmur ‘gainst us, no contrarian cuss.                     
                        But with our leave you speak, and I will go
                        Before you, first on TV’s prime time show.

McCainus:        I do desire no more.
                       
                                Exeunt omnes goose-stepping to the strains of Hail to the Chief, but McCainus stays

                                                         Now if I play
                        My cards full well, then this will be my day.
                        O pardon me thou bleeding…

Writing C:.                                                   Will, not that!
                        No deaths! Recall’st? The secret service cat
                        Will out the bag at words of death and threats
                        To snare us muchly in their Gitmo nets.

Will S.              Thy warnings I did heed; I cut those lines
                        But as I said before, these Frankensteins
                        Take on a life ‘f their own, defy my verse;
                        Deem’st this is bad? I fear it will get worse

Writing C:.       All bets are off, then. Let them now proceed
                        T’ incriminate us in this bloody deed.

McCainus:       As I was saying… bleeding piece of earth,
                       To make it rhyme I’ll have to lithp, I curth
                       These butchers. Victor of Eye-rakistan,
                       Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
                       That ever lived in the tide of times.
     
Writing C.:       Eye-rakistan?

Will S.                                    He needs it so it rhymes.

Writing C.:      Thou helpest him?

Will S.                                         A little.

Writing C.:                                                 My, oh my!

McCainus:     Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
                      Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips…

Vox populi:    Those ruby lips that launched a thousand slips,
                      A hundred thousand poxing malaprops;
                      In that, forsooth, the Bushie was the tops.

Weiting C.:     Do speed him up, Will, that I do entreat,
                      Or else our play we’ll never e’er complete.

Will S:            I will. I’ll thrust him on to end this speech,
                      Fast forward my iconic phrase to reach.
                      
McCainus:      I’ll unleash strife upon these sons ‘f a whore.
                      Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war.
                       
                                          [Barking Mad Mix]

                      Who let the dogs out? Who, who, who, who, who?
       
Writing C.:      First Bush doth butcher, now McCainus too?

Will S.            Zounds, ‘sblood, my finest lines, and finest-er
                      Than them are none, and none sublimest-er.
     
Grammarian:   The deadly grammar plague e’en to the bard
                       Doth spread its evil bane, his verses marred.
                       Superlative, o Will, can never take
                       Comparative’s ending, for goodness sake!

Will S.:            I know that, but this foul cast’s wrecking binge
                       With my best verses doth my tongue unhinge.
                       McCain hath slipped the leash!

Writing C.:                                                   Stop, stop, I say!
                       Add not your stupid jive unto this play!
                       You’re acting, Anus, like the Bushie. Stop!

McCainus:       Who let the dogs out… Shake it Mamma…

Writing C:                                                                         Drop
                       Thine own additions, cur, do nothing add!

Will S.:            Unleashed he’s raging, rabid, barking mad .

McCainus:       Havin' a ball, ha… heard a woman shout…
                       You flea infested mongrel…

Will S.:                                                     Anus, out!

McCainues:     Who? Who? That's why they call me ‘pit bull.’                    

Writing C..:                                                                         Shut your face!

McCainus:       But Baha Men can get me whole new voting base.     

                     Exit McCainus on all fours, barking, to the crescendo sounds of Who Let the Dogs Out 

8 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 2 Scene 4

             Enter Lynna, and Scooterus no longer in drag

Lynna            I prithee, boy, run to the Senate house!
                     Make haste! Why stare’st thou like a startled mouse?
                     Why dost thou stay?

Scooterus:                                      To know my errand, madam.

Lynna:            He knows not plot to do to Bush like Saddam?                                                        
[aside]
[to                 Stay not to quibble! Speed there strong and true!
  Scooterus]   Art thou here yet?

Scooterus:                                   Madam, what should I do?

Lynna:             Do? Bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,
                       And note what Caesar doth, if he yet fell.
                       
                                     Enter the soothsayer

                       Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?

Soothsayer:     Madam, not yet. Like any wily pol,
                       He waits until the crowd grows mighty strong,
                       That lusty cheers from multiplying throng
                       Might thus propel him forward through the door
                       To greater glory on the Senate floor.
                       So will I stand by street curb till he pass
                       And warn him: ‘Caesar, do protect thine arse!’

Lynna:             Why, know’st thou any harms? What do you hear?

Soothsayer:      Nothing explicit; non-specific fear
                        Have I from my forebodings of great harm
                        That come to pass this day. I must go, ma’am.
                       
                                                Exit soothsayer

Lynna:              I must go in. Oi vey, how weak a thing
                        The heart of woman is.

                                   Sennet, alarums, excursions. Enter Nortona panting, shrieking

Nortona:                                           Shame! Dost thou sing
                         Sexism's song, thou gleeking sexist sow?
                         Take that!

Lynna:                              Ow! Ouch!

Nortona:                                            And that! I'll teach thee how
                         The heart of man is weaker 'neath his pecs
                         Than any ticker of our fairer sex.

Will S.:               I never wrote that nor brought Norton in.
                          I tell thee, coach, our actors do foul sin
                          Against our text, assume in full their part
                          in real life, no longer aping art.
                          Their independence spreadeth like the pox.
                          Expel her coach, and shut the stage's locks.

                             Alarums, ruckus. Exit Nortona flying through the air at the end of Coach's boot

Lynna:                The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise,
                          O Chenie, cut the Bushie down to size!

                                 Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:          For slashes and for gashes and for cuts
                          From Texas Cheyn’-saw massacre, your nuts
                          With double Johnson band aids bind them tight!
                          The Johnson twins will put your pain to flight.
                    
                                                          Exit sponsor 2

Lynna:                Thou art still here, o Scooterus? Hie hence
                          To see if Zeus doth turn our puny pence
                          To golden fortune.

                                                 Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:                                     Halliburton will
                         Turn pence to zillions what’er the bill.
                         Gourmets are we in each and ev’ry heist,
                         We symbolise the corporate zeitgeist.

                                                   Exit sponsor 1

Lynna:               Run, Scoot’rus, and commend me to my lord,
                         And bring me word if he now chairs the board.

                        Exeunt separately, Lynna doing a belly dance, Scooterus break-dancing