by Brian T. Lynch, MSW
(With a hat tip to William Shakespeare)
To impeach, or not to impeach: That is the question.
Whether 'tis better to suffer the slings and arrows of the outrageous Trump, Or now to drown him in his sea of troubles, And by calling the question, end him. Impeach: convict: No more.
And by convicting say we ended Russiagate, restored the public trust, upheld the constitution, purified our politics, and moved his sycophants off stage.
Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
Impeach, Convict. Convict: perchance acquit!
Ay, there's the rub: For in that long and bitter process of impeachment, what evils may befall us while we are shuffling off his White House coil, must give us pause:
To deepen those divisions now dividing us the more,
While his minions undo all diplomacy and civility,
Tilting our enemies towards war,
Ripping babies from their mothers' arms,
Stoking flames of wild trade wars against allies,
Battering the pillars of our cherished institutions,
Poisoning the highest courts in our land,
Dissolving the rule of law and leaving us bereft of truth itself.
Whilst now our wav'ring allies stare aghast at his rapturous rapprochement Toward the sly thief of Moscow, who abrogates their democracies and our own. Heeding not Trump's unmastered tweets of preposterous denial, Righteous Nations no longer take lead or counsel from the birthplace of liberty, Whose statue blushes in New York harbor.
All the while hidden commerce of corruption rages on, expanding the swamp, Palms outward to every tyrant and oligarch in exchange for dark entanglements that enrich a few at the cost of the many.
To Impeach: To act quickly and strike the sword from his command, before war and atomic doom encircles us all!
For who can bear the whips and scorns of Trump's insolence in office, His oppressive executive orders to undo righteous advances by his predecessors, His fetid self-promotion, And disregard for all emollient constraints.
But alas, the dread of something after his quietus doth follow: A congress of cowards! Men who neither see, nor hear, nor care in actions to spare us.
A second in Pence who cannot quell the contumely of the berserker base, And succession running through Ryan and Bolton, the latter by far the darker Lord in waiting.
And now an emboldened militia, quick to arm, aim at the heart of founding fathers, Insurgents born from a place where souls and minds are captives in a war of deception.
Yet is all of this not so already? It this not the urgency of now?
So fly to the battered ramparts where the foundry of truth abides, Where the Articles must be cast, Where Rosenstein and Mueller in silence must bear the fardels still unrevealed. Dwell not in rumination lest this yoke makes cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.
Arise now before all hope is lost!