Fragments of a poem, found in a bottle at the foot of the Okjokull Glacier in Iceland in 2066.
Ulysses in Greenland
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still harbor, among these barren crags,
Matched with a Slovenian wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws with a savage pace,
And hoard, and tweet, and feed, and long to pee.
I cannot rest from Twitter, I will stink
Up the Tower like old cheese. [...]
I am become a name;
For always ranting with an angry heart
Much have I overthrown--cities of men,
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself a beast, dishonoring them all,--
And drunk delight of battle with Pelosi,
Far on the ringing plains of Washington D. C.
I have ruined all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an anus wherethrough
Lurks a deeper darkness whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move. [...]
This is my son, mine own Don Junior,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle,
Well-loved of me, as discerning as a newt,
By slow imprudence to drive wild
A ragged people, and through social media
Subdue them to the useless and the bad.
Most blameworthy is he, centered in the sphere
Of broken duty, an indecent failure
In offices of tenderness, and pays
Millions to the household gods of Gazprom.
He works the devil's work, and mine. [...]
Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Piss off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To build Trump Tower upon the tundra, and conquer
All of Greenland, ere I die.
It may be that glaciers will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Scilly Isles,
And see the great Boris, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, naught abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Had a handicap of seven, that which we are, we are,
One equal distemper of hateful hearts,
Made weak by malice and money, but strong in will
To scythe, to break, to kill, and not to yield.