← Previous Post: | Next Post:


For our time.


O, my dye, Horatio;

The potent poison quite o’er-crows my cheeks:

I cannot live to hear the news from Georgia;

But I do prophesy the election lights

On Trump: he has my dying voice;

So tell him, with the occurrences, more and less,

Which have solicited. The rest is silence.

Trackback URL for this post:

Comment on this Entry

Latest UD posts at IHE