Friends, Americans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury the Democratic Party, not to praise it.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with the Democratic Party. The noble Limbaugh
Hath told you Obama was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grevious fault,
And grieviously hath Obama answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Limbaugh and the rest, Fox and teabaggers,–
For Limbaugh is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men,–
Come I to speak in the Democratic Party’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Limbaugh says he was ambitious;
And Limbaugh is an honorable man.
He hath brought many foreign accolades home to America,
Whose IOU’s did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Obama seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Obama hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Limbaugh says he was ambitious;
And, Limbaugh is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the InaugurationWe thrice presented him our adulation,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Limbaugh says he was ambitious;
And, sure he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Limbaugh spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts of teabaggers,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with the Democratic Party,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday the word of Obama might
Have stood against the world: now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O liberals, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Limbaugh wrong and Hannity wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men.
I will not do them wrong, I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I would wrong such honourable men.
But here’s a health care reform bill with the seal of Obama;
I found it in his West Wing desk; tis his legacy:
Let but the 50 million uninsured hear this testament–
Which pardon me, I do not mean to read–
And they would go and kiss dead Obama’s wounds
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
Yeah, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy
Unto their issue.
Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how Obama loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And being men, hearing the Bill of Obama,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
‘Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For if you should, O what would come of it.
Will you be patient? will you stay a while?
I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it:
I fear I wrong the honourable men
Whose votes have stabbed Obama; I do fear it.
You will compel me then to read the the Bill?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Obama
And let me show you him that made the Bill.
Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this Jacket: I remember
The first time ever Obama put it on;
‘Twas on a winter’s evening in Iowa,
That day he overcame the Clintons;
Look, in this place ran Hannity’s rapier wit through:
See what a rent the envious O’Reilly made.
Through this the well-beloved Limbaugh stabb’d;
and as he pluck’d his cursed vicious tongue away,
Mark how the blood of Obama follow’d it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Limbaugh so unkindly knock’d or no:
For Limbaugh, as you know, was Obama’s Devil angel:
Judge O you gods, how dearly Obama loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Obama saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor’s arms,
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;
and, in his jacket, muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Edward M. Kennedy’s statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Obama fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.
O, now you weep, and I perceive yuou feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what weep you when yuou but behold
Our Obama’s vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr’d as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, sweeet friends, let me not stir you up
to such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable;
What private hatreds and jealousies they have, alas I know not.
That made them do it: they are wise and honourable,
and will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Limbaugh is;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt woman,
That love my friend, and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Obama’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me, but were I Limbaugh,
And Limbaugh, Sherry, there was a Sherry
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Obama’s and the Democratic Party, that should move
The stones of America to rise and mutiny.