“I with the new,” Joe said haltingly, “no flame comes out and black kids will touch my leg hair. I have plenty of leg hair. It has never been in a wok. “Wok” is a thing you cook in, Jack. Maybe learn that before the flood of electricity from Russia came over here. Thank you.”

“Mr. President! Mr. President!” the press core cried from their knees, genuflecting, presenting like mandrills.

“No questions!” Karine screamed. She threw a trench coat over Joe and triggered fireworks that fired into the crowd of reporters to drive them off.

“That went well,” Joe said, touching her hair.

“Yes, sir,” Karine said.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Michelle,” Joe said. He followed Karine into the long hallway back to The Oval Office, holding his side.

 

 

“Beware!” said the crone that came for him from the darkness. “Beware, Joe Biden!”

“Hey, Rosa,” Joe said. “Did you see my-my-my speech?”

 

ROSA, Crone of Congress

The ill fates align, Son of Delaware,
Scion of Scranton, thy days are numbered.
A bare thirty-five score remain to you
And those will be filled with rank betrayal.

 

KARINE, Lady of Blackberryshire

Out, crone! Harry not my lord and master!

 

ROSA

Pricked my thumbs o’er a stew of Jew liver
I did, and inhaled the vapour: Dark days
Lick the dawn, and foul the waters of time.
Heed not my words and know oblivion!

 

JOE, Doom’d Lord of Columbia

Rosa, I, you know, careful stove I’ll go.
My physician wife has the asthma, dig.
I use the stove when she lets me, popcorn.
Do you have popcorn? I love late dinner.

 

KARINE

Begone! You do agitate. He needs rest.
Sundown he does, at Eleven of AM
A lid, I call! A lid for press vultures!
They cannot see my master so harassed.

 

JOE

He is just a jester, dearest Karine.
His hair and gay motley do proclaim mirth,
Old he may be, but tumbles aplenty
Reside still in his old bones and antics.

 

KARINE

Are you well, my Lord? Words do flow queerly
From thy puckered mouth.

 

JOE

Dost thou smell fresh toast? I smell muchly toast.

 

KARINE
I smell not toast, my Lord. Perchance to sit,
Please, sir, before today’s stroke does take you.

 

ROSA

Beware! Beware! Beware! Beware! Beware!

 

exit Rosa, rising into the fly

 

KARINE, a lament

Much push’d is the medic alert button,
Of late it knows more love than my dear wife’s.