The Well-Hung Election, or Brown Goeth Down to China Town

A newly discover’d play by the Immortal Shakespeare, who turns out to be literally Immortal, alive, and well, if rather Shady, in London today!

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Her Majesty Elizabeth II
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales
His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh

Gordon Brown, quondam Prime Minister
David Cameron, new Prime Minister
Nick Clegg, “deputy” PM (wtf?)

Two Aides to Gordon BROWN

Sardonicus, and Hardonicus, two Low Fellows

Willie, a Ghillie

An Oxonian Wanker

A Nude Fellow

Sundry Posh Tarts, Flash Blondes, Security Men, Americans, Fantastical Spaniards, pizza delivery boys, and LSE lecturers

Act I Sc 1 London, Number Ten Downing Street

[Enter Gordon of Brown, and sundry Attendants]

Brown: So shaken as we are, so wan with care
Find we a TV the election returns to weep
And breath sad accents of lost seats for Labour,
That before this day were as secure as Rain,
I’m going to tear the Wanker who mismanaged this campaign
A new asshole. See if I don’t. For ’twas not my error,
I swear the lady had a big head, a fat one,
A head filled with nonsense and a face with food,
I’d bean the dame with my cellphone had I not used
That infernal Device for target practice upon my Aide,
The one as clueless as anger, hunger, or the sea.

Aide Primus: My lord, cease this fond Amaze:
Valiant Hector was never heard thus to mourn
But to take arms against the troublous Greeks
And by opposing, end them. At least that is what
We were taught at St. John’s Wood, if memory serves.

Brown: Varlet, scum, Nancy boy, loser,
And whatever other name may not unbecome
My high and palmy state, tho’ it be thus destroy’d
(For even as men remember’d Rome they will bewail
The loss of New Labour and its grand design)
Be thou call’d. Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes:
You incompetent Piece of Matter Fecal,
You toad-eating scum of the green-mantl’d Pond,
You block, you stone, you worse than senseless thing,
Thou hast stol’n the election and I am no longer King.

Aide Secundus:What, King? Thou weren’t elected
But King thou never wert, or my name is Bert

Brown:Me bespoke mistookenly you get my drift
Oh ruinous fate to be ever thus, plugg’d,
We cannot say but that which but spins the world round,
On Mercury’s wings fly our brain farts, whilst the truth
Of what we intended is hidden in night. I say again
You blockheads lost me the election, and I no longer the thing.

Aide Secundus: Pardon me, my lord, but hear’st my cellphone twee
Let me get this call, I hope it’s from HSBC!

Aide Primus (aside) Yea, if this is the song Brown shall sing
I shall ‘scape to America and trudge the talk show ring.

Act I sc 2 A Posh hotel. Sennet. Tucket. Enter David and Samantha Cameron, Nick Clegg, an Oxonian Smartass Wanker, Reporters, Aides, Fashion Models, Posh Tarts and Makeup Ladies

Cameron: Once more is the Queen’s First Ministerhoodship
Repurchased with the votes of Tories!

General clamor

Cameron: Come hither, Sam. And let me kiss my boy.
Young what’s your name, for thee,
I on the telly have watched the returns
Went all afoot when me limousine broke down,
And from my defeat of Labour, ’tis thou shalt reap the gain

Clegg (aside): Ah but ’tis the Liberals that shall winnow this grain
(To Cameron) All hail David, England’s worthy minister supreme
The first man of our most noble, Royal, and constitutional Queen!

Cameron: What says the old girl? Hath I been invited to the Palace?

Smartass: No, and you won’t be, or my name is Alice:
My lord, know you not that the Queen awaits our pleasure?
I speak without fear, or favor, and in the absence of malice:
When there is no winner the Queen doth refrain
From inviting anyone to her demesne.

Cameron: What, sirrah, is this thing true?
Are the votes uncounted? Hath the heads not talked?
Who hath the most votes if not proud Cameron of ancient fame?
That gallowglass Gordon? That Clegg of wine?
Nay, ’tis I who won this most famous of elections
To the mother of Parliaments and sovereign assembly
Of fairest England, land of hope and glory.

Smartass: Aye, that is so, my dread lord, you speak true
But hearken unto procedure ancient and sanctioned
In these my law books, which I treasure above my life.
“In casus pluribus non majoritarian lettus Rex ponepost
Et lettus laddus fightest it out amongst themselvus”
Which is to say, when there is a plurality all shall agree
On a coalition government and then call upon Royalty!

Cameron: Surely, varlet, thou shittest me!

Smartass: I would not thee shit for all the world, ‘pon my word
For thou art my most honored Lord, and favorite Turd.

Exeunt omnes

Act 1 Sc 3 a Chamber in Buckingham Palace. Enter the Queen, with various Toadies, Hanger-ons, pizza delivery boys, and Court Flunkies, together with the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh

Queen: A fine Mess this is, this democracy:
The many headed have ope’d the temple of Pandora,
As have the Yankees ope’d the earth Carib
In greed ungentle for unguental Fuel
With which to drive like beggars drive
The stol’n horse to exhaustion and equine death,
Their Cars all over their large Nation,
Which they stole from us in their Revolution
When they at Yorktown they did us dismay,
And “Upside Down” the band did play.
Where was I one loses the thread of speech
Even as the Baroness Thatcher doth screech
Toil’d with Alzheimer’s forgetful Nepenthe
Mew’d up in her Honors, to buy her silence,
Oh yes, a Mess, a fine mess indeed
Why must we not rule when I know what We need?

Wales: Aw Mom, o Law Mom, o Crikey, o Crumbs
Hast thou forgotten how Saxe Coburg comes
From Hanover agreeing to reign like the rain
Gentle from Heaven, with mild concur
With parliament no matter what might they prefer?

Queen: Fiddlesticks, phooey, nonsense and stuff,
And whatever else oaths may come from high born Queen,
Direct I in your direction. You are still a fool
Still crazy after all these years.

Edinburgh: Yes, son, thou’rt a poor one,
I and thee have not hunted together for many a morn
We should get out onto the yielding moor
And bring something down, elk or wild boar,
Or perhaps, a nice fat juicy anti-hunting activist.
Learn absence of yielding pity, that is woman’s work:
Your mother may not be long for this world,
And after she goeth to her eternal Reward,
To sit with proper Anglican saints in chorus celestial,
Reaffirming there forever more the proper English things,
Thou shalt be King thereafter, whilst if I stay alive
Clinging on to this strange and whirling ball,
Trying to figure out the Internet, and all,
I would not witness the dinner of dog
You are sure to make of thy reign,
With apes of idleness and Oxford dons
Making squires of beggars, and of squires, clowns.

Charles: Was ever Prince in such humor screwed?
Was ever Prince in such humor sham’d?
I’ll quit me hence, to Paris shall I go,
And at Diana’s place of death shall I weep full my woe.

Exit Charles in a Huff

Queen: So thus ever doth son quit the field.
Sweet husband, tell me what to do
So as Labour to screw, and Tory to exalt
Must I with Liberal meet? My grandmother great
Great great if I be not mistake, could not abide
That bag of Gladstone to tea. ‘Twas she
Preferr’d Disraeli.

Edin.: See thou my counsel dark and plot envenom’d:
Bring Gordon crashing down, empty the state
Spread fear and its Medusa, hate. Step in then
And appoint Cameron minister prime.
Drown Clegg in a Keg in the bloody, dark and desparate Tower
As was Clarence drown’d in fulsome wine, silly swine.

Queen: Thou aged, perverse and most reticent Greek
Thou art as of old my evil spirit, a man’s man and no geek.
Through thee I summon my darkness, be thou my Counsel
In thee I spot my heaven, which is my Nation’s hell.

Exeunt Omnes

Act 1 Sc 4 London, a Low Place

Enter Sardonico and Hardonico, two Clowns

Sard.: ‘Tis my whirling brain that makes an addled pate.

Hard.: Nay, ’tis the condition of this the British state.

Sard.: What sayest thou, lump? Didst thou get shagged last night?

Hard.: Aye, and blown.

Sard.: Thou’rt blown, thou wind-fill’d,loon. Thou liest, I saw thee
dead drunk ere the clock struck nine.

Hard.: I was but resting awhile: I was knacker’d sure by Mad Meg,
she, the rough sleeper that sleep’st roughly in Sloane Square.

Sard.: Thou best be getting thee to an apothecary. Knave, knowest not she’s HIV positive?

Hard.: If she hath the antibody, then she is better than well. For
look you, we are but sick when we are well, and well when we fall ill.

Sard.: What, art thou madcap? Whence this sweet paradox, pox? Two physicians, though a “pair of doctors” indeed, could not cure thy madness.

(Sings)

A pair of doctors did on the Queen attend
They did cure her, and postpone her untimey end:
When the old girl came to, she said “it is true”
“And false I live, and thus I see as plain as Clocks”
“A pair of physicians, or, a Paradox”.

Hard.O thy song is maudlin. May’st seem so Paradoxical to thee, but I shall expound most learnedly. Look you, Sardonico, Is not sickness the presence of symptoms as in Galen?

Sard.: Aye, loon. Sickness is not the body’s health, the body’s health is the absence of symptoms, therefore their presence is sickness. Thou art a syllogistic rogue for one so recently flown with wine.

Hard.: And doth not sir Body, that wandering knight so fair, emit
Humours so as to defeat sickness, and is it not these Humours that
wrack the body with Fever?

Sard.: It must be so, potsherd.

Hard.: Therefore, ends this catechism. The body when ill is manful,
full of fight, like unto the fairest Wight: it is an Hector, or
Agamemnon. Mad Meg be sick, and pray I that I caught what she had.

Sard.: Thy conclusions are Bedlam, which refute thy logic by way of
excluded middle. But look you, David Cameron has hir’d us on a mission of some gravity. We must to him to receive our charge.

Hard.: I follow, and stagger, ever after.
(Sings) For man that a fool doth follow
Is but a foolish fallow fellow
Sing hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny no.

Exeunt Omnes

Act 1 sc V Westminster. Some antechamber, whatever that is

Enter David Cameron, solus

Thus is my summer defeated by a simple word:
“Plurality” shall ever follow me, not majority:
Alack that mine ambition is so set aside
And I must grin and gibber, and Clegg abide.
‘Tis said we look alike, ’tis that that me galls:
To be his tweedle to his dee was not my plan
Nor was to be dumb to his tweedle: that doesn’t scan.
To be cloned, copied, Xeroxed I? Cameron?
Nay, I shall this Clegg, this peg, send packing:
Let him deal with Gordon for his cause.
I have a scheme that shall involve our Queen
Appointing me first Minister, and letting slip
The dogs of crisis constitutional. Murdoch I have
He is my pocket pet, my man, my homunculus:
The press shall heel at my command,
Save for the Daily Mirror, that pathetic rag.
To hunt in Scotland now go I, there to toady to
The styl’d duke of Edinburgh, a man most true
To our Tory cause of ancient fame.
Let me be Roman, let me be not Greek,
And like Caligula, that guy in than porno flick
I’ll bring down this stag of England’s state
And O! let them fear me, if me they hate.

Enter Sardonico and Hardonico

Cam.:Aside Here come the foolish tools of mine design
Before I take the Scotsman Flying, traveling non cognito,
Hid in some chamber on the ancient horse of iron,
I must with these Fellows discourse. For did not Nixon
Have low, invisible, non cognito plumbers, who sealed
Leaks from his white palace in that dank swamp?
So must great ones have their mice, and lo
To Hard. and Sard.My lice,
Art thou ready for mission possible, but secret, damn’d and dark?

Sard.:We are, my Lord, if cleareth at the bank the cheque.

Cam.:And so it hath been transmit to your accounts:
I see thee ready for all my desperate designs
To seize this Office free of Liberal taint.
Which one of you, Sardonicus be?

Hard.:Not I, my lord, that be’eth he.

Sard.To Hard.Peace good tickle-Brain speak only when we speak, to thee. Sardonicus am I, and him, my kid brother, separated at birth, but rejoined upon this whirling earth.

Hard.:’Twas the stuff of comedy, mismatched identity, a Channel crossing, and a girl.

Sard.:And on that crossing when I met him I did hurl.

Cam.:Cease prating vile, like Stooges Three
Leave such stuff and partlet nonsense for late night TV.
Listen now, Sardonicus, and cudgel thy brother’s brain
Until my plot is known to him, and is an ineradicable stain.

Sard.:Yeah, verily, and I shall, if thou would start speaking like a true gentleman, in iambic pentameter blank. ‘Tis what the Low expect, begging your worship’s pardon.

Cam.: And so I shall for I went down to school
Or be it up? Stun me, if I recall-
At Oxford, varsity of some renown and fame:
Learnt I to speak thus posh and toffee-Nos’d
‘Tis what I turn upon the snooty French
Headwaiter he who me dar’st serve with sauce
Of words insuborn from one subaltern and Low,
Or some Concoction vilely made with cream,
Improper cook’d in Kitchen dew’d with snot:
‘Tis how I put th’upstarting Yank in his
Own proper place in scheme of things, in which
The Yankee’s nasal language harshly rings
Demanding we invade Iraq, and things
Unspeakable unspoken disastrous vile
Medusa’s gaze, and the crocodile’s smile
As seen so say do they on banks of Nile..

Hard.:Good me lord, us gets the idea, please stop…thy pentameter doth mechanical so hop…

Cam.:Then to fall to a slower method,
Whilst still speaking in blank verse,
Strewn with iambs and with anapests,
I need you Clowns to spread the word
Upon the Internet and in the pubs
That Clegg is meeting with Gordon Brown
This will the public astound, and cause such Clamor
As to force great England’s superannuated, old,
Time-honored, octogenerate and ancient Queen
To put the boot royale in, and through prerogative
Ancient and unimpeach’d, appoint me her Minister
Primus inter pares and of her Cabinet, prime.
Thus I am dazzl’d by sweet destiny,
And silenc’d and in awe for minutes, three.

Cameron is in a fugueing state

Sard.:Aside to Hard.Such fustian is more low
Than Shakespeare ever sank…sweet Hardonico,
Thinks’t this is a play by Marlowe?

Hard.:Aside to Sard.This, my bro, I do not know
Are you sure that that guy wrote so?
I thought he wrote in the genre detectivo…
Of dicks hard-boiled, and dames of blonde
And gunsels who with gun go bang bang bang
And prisons in which bad guys are mew’d with clang:
Dost not mean Phillip Marlowe?

Sard.: Aside to Hard.Oh, forget it, my big toe…

Cameron conveniently emerges from his Daze

Cam.: What, you fellows gape and yawn?
Matters are afoot, get cracking, and begone.

Sard. and Hard.: We wait upon your Lordship’s pleasure…

Cam.: I’ll kick you in your manly treasure
If you be not to work. This ain’t Measure for Measure.

Cam., Sard., and Hard. exeunt severally

Act 2

Sc 1 London, in front of Number Ten Downing Street

Enter Gordon of Brown, journos, coppers, makeup girls, protestors, a Nude Fellow, assorted protestors, with Sardonico and Hardonico

Brown:Friends, Britons, countryfolk, lend me your ears
And fifty bob with which to repair the loo
At Number Ten, for I haven notice given
To England’s right royal Queen,
That I shall be willing to serve this Nation bold
For months of five, until such time
As LabLib can ad lib a new Government,
A thing unseen and most grand, a Coalition
The solution certain to Britannia’s woes,
The Physick most soothing to the working class,
As well as to all right-thinking but left-leaning Pressure groups,
Be they for the rights of beasts, or of fathers absent,
Or the protection of the watchers of birds,
Or votes for women, oops scratch that ’twas attaint
Quite some time ago, or so an Aide
A tart little thing if I may so say, doth whisper
Like Faery through this well wax’d bud
Thou see’st dangling like Bauble from mine ear.

Nude Fellow: And wot about the rights of the nude?

Brown: Nude fellow, be’est thou not dismay’d
Our State for thee shall stand array’d
If thou through civil protest and legal means
Do advance thy cause in a pair of jeans.
But Britons all, I do thus announce,
That I extend an offer to Nicholas of Clegg
And fair and Liberal amity to him extend,
Ready to give him fixity of Parliamentary term,
Representation proportional, less first past the post,
And whatever else he shall suggest
That Sense doth make and Constitutional is.

Journo (aside): Thus ever doth the Egg hit the fan
I’ll to Fleet Street repair, there to plan
A scoop most scrupl’d that shall pre-empt
The Telegraph and Sun, those dead trees
By appearing on the Internet by half past three.

Sardonico (aside to Hardonico): This is a spaniard in the works
The two of us must bustle, up to Balmoral
To warn Cameron of this…before tomorrow.

Hardonico: Fly we then to Scotland, for it there
Cameron is shooting with Edinburgh on peaty moor:
Shoot surely they at anything that moveth
When no Stag appears, ’tis Elk that they prefer-eth
And when the Elks are slaughter’d all
The jolly Rabbit stands in gunsight in much appall.

Sardonico: Fly, fie, we’ll take the train:
The food on Ryan Air I do disdain:
Prefer I a pie on British Rail
And with my pie, a pot of bubbling ale.

Hardonico: Our great Author seems to rhyme our words
From being blank, his verse becometh a parle of birds
Surest art thou, it Shakespeare is?
At rhyming this poet seems to be a whiz.

Sardonico: When want I your opinion, you clown sans clue
Rest assur’d: I shall beat it out of you.

Exeunt Omnes

Act 2 Sc 2: Scotland, a Moor

Enter a Ghillie, nam’d Willie

Willy: The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day
Creeps not from sea’s bosom and hides itself;
Mine Rolex chimes the hour, but the sun’s not seen
Instead of sun, a sort of greyish paste
Doth circumvent my amblings on this peat-strewn moor.
A mist doth chill me in my ague’d Ham
This Fug, that makes things seem not wot they am,
In which a man might discern and scry
Those haruspicate shadows that do grin
And gibber of slaughters past their sell-by date.
Methinks I see that bonnie Prince, Charles,
Fleeing dead Scotland at Culloden Moor,
When slaughter’d our kith was, by that English man,
The bruited noble Earl, of Cumberland
“Sweet William” at court, “Stinking Billie” here,
Who cut down our throng ‘tho in fear
We fled his line so thin and red
Incarnadine were the Scots horde as well
But red they were with naught but dread.
But old shades oppress me, havoc and the dogs of war:
For Scotland sits, undevolved save for an airy word,
By Parlemant spoke, by that same congress
Unspeakable, revocable, and to the shame
Of our Scots nation devolution be ta’en.
Our man Brown resign’d, his intent was clear
‘Twas to create a coalition of the left:
A tent big enough for the circus which Albion is now.
But today he’s of hope, bereft:
The radio said, Cameron, he of high and Scottish name
But low, posh, Thames begotten,
Is to be Prime Minister. Plots have been laid,
Inductions dangerous, but no more I’ll prophesy
We Scots again are betray’d, takin’ shit with a sigh.

Enter Sardonico and Hardonico

Sard.:Holla, Scots fellow of rude and haggish mien,
With skirt in place of pants and Tam o’Shanter,
Knows’t thou where on this moor most foul
Shoots the noble Duke of Edinburgh?

Willie: Aye, methinks I hear the View Halloo
Resound in murk of moor and in th’ gloam.
Shots have I heard, and animal cries of pain
Bloody are the streams, and cute bunnies run
From the man with th’expensive gun,
A grey eminence, ducal in mien, with hordes of flunkies,
Toad eaters, and security men.

Sard: Attended is he (forget this poetry) with a sprat not but thirty odd, who looks like some sort of posh sod?

Willie: I, and so he is. Lectures he the egg on statesmanship as animals they slay.

Sard.: I’m sorry, that’s all fucked up, what did you say?

Willie: He tells Cameron how to run the state, and how to marshal fear and hate.

Sard.: Then that’s our noble and right honorable quarry
Come, sweet Hardonico, we should not tarry.

Hardonico: Go’est thou, and I shall follow:
This single malt is strangely easy to swallow.

Unus’d to the wild and noble prospects of Scots-land, Sardonico and Hardonico immediately exeunt stage right only to fall off a crag and, with howls of dismay, land off stage onto a mound of Peat and sheep droppings, and are cover’d, as the Scots say, in Glaur in which they remain for the rest of the play, as was play’d in my Tempeste by Staphonoe, and Trinkulo, and Caleybanne before King James by the Admiral’s men before my well-deserv’d retirement.

Willie the Ghillie exiteth, cackling, by the low road

Act 2 Sc 3 Another part of the Moor

Enter The Duke of Edinburgh, David Cameron, Ghillies, Security Men, Interns

Edin.: Such hunting and such noble sport
Was never had until this day of fame
Our Guns rang out and put all Ninnies to shame:
Thus ever Britons, and obstreperous Greeks
Shall conquer all with loud alarums,
And win a kingdom with British arms.
Hardonico and Sardonico cover’d in Glaur, enter
But what are these, so gooey and so glaur’d
That dare affright us at our Royal game?
They seem half human, but are covered in mud
To which cling the briar and the thistle
That do so grace the Scottish moor in season
The best to keep the Low at home, to watch
The games of football on TV, and not dare
To so offend the Eye as do these Louts
From some dungeon heav’d, onto a pile of shite,
By some gaoler who could not them, indict.
Say, you mud fellows, and report
Why you so irrupt and mar our sport.

Cam.: Indeed, thou two art now under Tory yoke
Now Labour you both, and make no joke
Speak kosher now to posher folk
As spoke ye when proud Thatcher was
More queen than Queen, in Tory reign, serene.
No more shall Mister Nice Guy try to pry
Reply from lewd and bloody minded Fellows
And it matters not that I am in thrall
To that sodding sprat of a Liberal:
Clegg’s hash shall be settled in due time.
What, you blocks, have you nothing to say
Speak or thou shalt dance the Antic Hey!

Sard.: In truth, an’ your worship, know’st thou not us, we are thy plumbers loyal, sent from you to meet with Clegg, but we took train to see you, for know you not that Brown doth scheme?

Cameron: Brown scheme? Sirrah, you dream
Or have eaten of the loony fruit
That takes man’s reason hostage:
For went Brown in to see his Queen,
He was chock full of Labour’d emotion
A-tic indeed with Brownian motion,
Planning to resign some time in the Fall
O that I had been a Fly on Palace Wall!
For scarce had he finish’d, nay even before
Our noble Queen gave him her patent stare
Of Bas’lisk, monster that did men affright,
Or she who conquered was, by Perseus,
Medusa, who with odious snakes in hair
Did cool the blood of man to freezing point,
And thus Her Majesty spoke,
Such freezing terms of ill to him
That he is half the man as ever was.
“MISter Brown”, said She, that Royal “we”,
“Enough of this nonsense, if you please:
A Minister does not give notice: this is not
A charter’d Accounting office nor assurance firm.
You are in the Palace Buckingham, do take note
And you come to me, having lost the vote.
Therefore I shall for once in my long and famous reign
Exercise the latent power that I hold,
Inherited from my ancestors and regal line
And tell thee in tones of stern command,
To quit Downing Street this day, get thee gone,
And leave it spic and leave it span
If you pretend to be a gentleman.”
With these words Gordon was abash’d
Hung head like schoolboy being whip’d.
“Ma,am”, mumbled he, in tones of disgrace
“But three hours we’ll be out of that place.”
Thus doth Labour labor in dismay,
And the LibLab coalition hath seen its day.
And you two clowns are of no use to me:
Get thee gone, you’re history.

Sard.: Doth your worship plan to pay our expenses, and our tab on the bar car on the train?

Cam.: Most certainly not, sot, and you may as well know
That a Debit transaction hath revers’d the Cheque
I wrote to thee when I was dismay’d.

Sard.: My lord, are these dealings fair?

Hard.: Your worship, be they square?

Cam.: I care not, welcome to the order new
Happy days are here again, for the few
And as for the rest of you,
Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth
The delightful music of the Eighties:
Clegg I shall check and Nick, command
And rule all England with an iron hand.
The widow shall weep, and the rough sleeper sleep
Expos’d to the wind and the rain
While the Posh they will sleep
Wrapped in bonds, and comforted with stocks,
Dreaming not of the country’s good, but of their own.

Edin.: Thus is New Labour overcome and binn’d
And Liberal shall soon be overthrown
My Liz shall reign her last days on England’s throne
And MI-5 shall ensure that William succeeds
It is he and not Charles that England needs.
Shine out, fair sun, cutting through the mist
And let all England do as her Rich would wist!

A general Shout, and notes of Acclaim. Exeunt omnes

Enter Author

Shags.: Gentles all, but list to me
Before you retire, perhaps to tea.
‘Twas I intended five acts for you
But was informed by the manager, Screw
That sit still you’d not for hours, two.
Therefore does Art to your taste bow
And lest you have a giant cow,
End this play right here and now.
And if any part doth the Critic offend
He can kiss me on my right rear end.

FINIS