KYSO Flash
Knock-Your-Socks-Off Art and Literature
Issue 11: Spring 2019
Poetic Satire: 447 words [R]

I Will Not Say F-U to Mitch McConnell on
Twitter Again (Shakespeare’s Ghost Returns)

by Doug Anderson

23 January: Temporarily expelled from Twitter for telling Mitch McConnell precisely what I thought of him in, uh, colorful language.

24 January: Just got out of Twitter jail: I will not say fuck you to Mitch McConnell on Twitter again. I will not say fuck you to Mitch McConnell on Twitter again. I will not...

24 January: Mitch McConnell and GOP allies are causing real suffering, and nobody can stop the shutdown. Let us remember their names.

24 January: Okay, I’ve been chastened for cussing Mitch. I’ve decided to outwit the algorithms and go Shakespearean:

Thou scab of piety grown over venom,
who, in thy purulent heart doth count thy gold
pried from the teeth of those who revere thee,
the fools who follow thee into the very twat
of Hell, how dost thou sleep? What hides
beneath thy bed at night and with flicking
black tongue hisses how Hellbound thou art?

25 January: Shakespeare’s ghost returns:

Enter Tharump, alone.

Bigly now I must act, call my loyal ones,
for mine enemies do press close.
I’ll dig into the night-soil of their lives
and find a way to foul them. For all
who’ve done my bidding and now turn
on me, I’ve kept a little chain of smut
tied to their bollocks. What! Who comes here?
Speak and save thyself.

(Draws his dirk.)

Enter Anne of Coolter.


What? Draw on me? The loyal one through all?
Thou dost lose heart at thy peril. Still thy soul,
we’ve work to do. Thou must build thy wall
or else the groundlings thou hast held so close
will slip away and leave thee to the elements.


But they threaten to take my purse
with which to build, what then?


What sniveling thing see I before me?
Here’s what. Thou must fanagle finely
what thou knowest how to do.
Thou, who hast grown among thieves and whores
need only step sideways into the dark that bore thee.
Call thy man Polonium. He will know the act.
Let me not see thee henceforth quiver
like the eel slithering lawyer thou hast banished.
You must stop his mouth with dirt and let
the worms carry his secrets down to Hell.
Anon, before the Mueller can unscroll his next defilement.

Exit Anne of Coolter.


Now, must I do it. Polonium, come forth
from the shadow where I’ve hid thee.
What sayest Thou to this thou hearest?


I say, have the Senate called to poison
the people’s hearing of this man who holds
such deadly knowledge. And if that doth not suffice,
I’ll fashion something fatal, something unkind,
but so accomplished it will be given out,
he made his own quietus from despair.


Go then. I’ll see thee when the blood moon
reddens our intent.



—First published on poet’s Facebook page (23–25 January 2019); appears here with his permission


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