With apologies to William Shakespeare
Now is the summer of our discontent
Made ominous by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
From the warming bosom of the ocean rise.
Now are our brows tied to victorious heat;
Our scorched earth hung up as testament;
Our stern alarums ignored for merry meetings,
Our hopeful marches to repugnant measures.
Grim-visag’d thaw hath blackened polar white;
And now, instead of cooling this barbed world
To calm the souls of fearful nations,
He capers nimbly in an oligarch’s chamber
To lascivious pleasing – I am groot!
Andrew
