or
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Until the recorded votes of the 2020 election are taken;
And all his yesterdays have lighted this fool
The way to dusty defeat.
45 is but a walking shadow, a poor player
Who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. His term is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
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