Patrick V (a Playlet)

“Good morning again, and happy St. Crispin’s Day and let’s make a little history. Today I am ending my lifelong membership in the Republican Party and my campaign for its nomination, and I’m declaring my intention to seek the nomination of the Reform Party for the presidency of the United States of America …”

Pat Buchanan, Oct. 25

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

King Henry V

Act IV, Scene iii

The English Camp.

Enter the King.


If we are marked to die, our pitchfork’d brigade is enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer ambassadorships to hand out.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

He which hath no stomach to this fight,

And hideth in the tall grass, like a damn girl,

Let him depart; I’ll get him a job at CNN,

Where mine appalling comments about the dusky Moor

And olive-skinned Levantine (and working maidens fair,

And–no one’s really glommed onto this yet–

My disparagement of those men of right good male fellowship,

Who doth hoard original-cast albums of Broadway musicals,

If ya know what I mean) serves but to raise my fees on Crossfire.

Forsooth, ‘tis a rich scam!

We would not die in that man’s company

Who would not punch out two Georgetown cops

When pulled over for speeding.

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and doth come over the hill,

Will buy a round when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will bore his neighbours unto death,

With tales of when and how

The Old Man (that’s me!--not Pop, not Nixon, not Reagan!)

Did flip the bird to the GOP!

We few, we happy Jew–(whoops;

Yon Wall Street Shylocks won’t soon forget that slip),

We band of brothers;

(Uh, no, not you, Hank. Put the gun down)

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile;

And Lord Ventura (who doth speak ill of Faith)

Shall hold his manhood cheap

That he did not mind his tongue

And endorse me.

He could have had the veep slot,

Stupid putz.