“My liege lady, generally,” quod he,
“Wommen desiren to have sovereynetee
As wel over hir housbond as hir love,
And for to been in maistrie hym above.
This is youre mooste desir, thogh ye me kille.
Dooth as yow list; I am heer at youre wille.”
In al the court ne was ther wyf, ne mayde,
Ne wydwe that contraried that he sayde,
The wife of Bath propounds it through her tale, What do women want?
Well, take the case of Mrs C. She and Bill come to mind, for me.
If that was your own White House, this is my own war.
I can be more brutal than you ever were, my dear.
Is that it? To outmuscle the muscle, delve below the deepest state,
All in the name of liberation, driven by the niceness of the nice?
Is it to come out on top, even if you cheat, since crime doesn’t actually play?
The Rothschilds’ rattler-potion uncle used to fleece the brothers
Of their candy, hone them into sharpsters. What are the crimes today
That women most want to commit? Is it to have the last word, however absurd?
Is it to input a foot, at whatever cost, even if it thus destroys
The harmony of the act? Mrs C, most probably became infected
By being a wife. It’s thought that this illness that ruined her life
Was brought on by the Billness of the Oval Office. Schadenfreude.
Schadenfreude. Look, because he’s sat there, she has to. Put in that extra
Flag-pole. Make a decision for herself. Linger over the button,
Like when she barged in on Bill and Monica there on the couch where
They used to do it. Ouch! It is not something she can let go.
Dumbfounded, heart-broken, bruised by that filthy young cow,
Boy, has she an itch to scratch! When it comes to the billions needed,
What would be the most convenient scheme for getting hold of them?
For Bill what comes in useful is his grin, one hand extending its
Common touch; behind the back, that Midas clutch.
Costs so little to kowtow to issues now for which they’ve badgered,
That she may profit from what power femininity may gift her.
Profit, Hillary, profit! Where there’s a will there’s an underhand way.
Since there’s no gain without pain, earthquakes may be manufactured.
Put your faith in your own foundation. There, between lip and cup,
Many a slip can be set up, many a straw inserted so as to siphon off
What’s wheat while victims clutch at straws. She will show that such as she
Is capable of waging mayhem, boosting the survival of its industry,
Albeit hastily, on the wrong side, eager to trash an economy
And loosing the stopper that has heretofore prevented the overcrowded
Dinghies of the latest exodus out of a famished continent from leaving
Via that territory. Initiated into potentatehood, she must become superior –
And an even bigger bitch than she ever was in Arkansas,
If she is going to get her own back. Back in here for all bitches everywhere.
If it means kids suffocating in the rear of trailers next to over-zealous
Cub reporters, why should it not? Compromise that trust in how nice
You need appear, if needs must. Power and Light, Mrs C. Power and Light.
See also Shadows and Vegetation
and here is the Duran commenting on Tulsi Gabbard’s rebuttal of Mrs Clinton’s virulent accusations in October 2019.