Da Tragedy of Hamlet, Pimp of Denmark

SCENE I fo' realz. A churchyard.

Enta two Clowns, wit spades, & c
First Clown
Is dat dunkadelic hoe ta be buried up in Christian burial that
wilfully seeks her own salvation?
Second Clown
I tell thee she is: n' therefore make her grave
straight: tha crballa hath sat on her, n' findz dat shit
Christian burial.
First Clown
How tha fuck can dat be, unless her dope ass drowned her muthafuckin ass up in her
own defence?
Second Clown
Why, 'tis found so.
First Clown
It must be 'se offendendo;' it cannot be else. For
here lies tha point: if I drown mah dirty ass wittingly,
it argues a act: n' a act hath three branches: dat shit
is, ta act, ta do, ta perform: argal, her dope ass drowned
herself wittingly.
Second Clown
Nay yo, but hear you, goodman delver,--
First Clown
Give me muthafuckin bounce yo. Here lies tha water; good: here
standz tha man; good; if tha playa git all up in dis water,
and drown his dirty ass, it is, will he, nill he, he
goes,--mark you that; but if tha wata come ta him
and drown him, da ruffneck drowns not his dirty ass: argal, he
that aint guilty of his own dirtnap shortens not his own game.
Second Clown
But is dis law?
First Clown
Ay, marry, is't; crballerz quest law.
Second Clown
Will you ha' tha real deal on't, biatch? If dis had not been
a gentlewoman, her big-ass booty should done been buried up o'
Christian burial.
First Clown
Why, there thou say'st: n' tha mo' pitizzle that
great folk should have countenizzle up in dis ghetto to
drown or hang theyselves, mo' than they even
Christian. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Come, mah spade. There is no ancient
gentleman but gardeners, ditchers, n' grave-makers:
they hold up Adamz profession.
Second Clown
Was he a gentleman?
First Clown
Dude was tha straight-up original gangsta dat eva bore arms.
Second Clown
Why, dat schmoooove muthafucka had none.
First Clown
What, art a heathen, biatch? How tha fuck dost thou KNOW the
Scripture, biatch? Da Scripture say 'Adam digged:'
could da ruffneck dig without arms, biatch? I be bout ta put another
question ta thee: if thou answerest me not ta the
purpose, confess thyself--
Second Clown
Go to.
First Clown
What tha fuck iz tha pimpin' muthafucka dat buildz stronger than either the
mason, tha shipwright, or tha carpenter?
Second Clown
Da gallows-maker; fo' dat frame outlives a
thousand tenants.
First Clown
I wanna bust a nut on thy wit well, up in phat faith: tha gallows
does well; but how tha fuck do it well, biatch? it do well to
those dat do in: now thou dost ill ta say the
gallows is built stronger than tha church: argal,
the gallows may do well ta thee. To't again, come.
Second Clown
'Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck buildz stronger than a mason, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shipwright, or
a carpenter?'
First Clown
Ay, tell me that, n' unyoke.
Second Clown
Marry, now I can tell.
First Clown
To't.
Second Clown
Mass, I cannot tell.

Enta HAMLET n' HORATIO, at a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distance

First Clown
Cudgel thy domes no mo' bout it, fo' yo' dull
ass aint gonna mend his thugged-out lil' pace wit whoopin; and, when
yo ass be axed dis question next, say 'a
grave-maker: 'the houses dat he make last till
doomsday. It make me wanna hollar playa! Go, git thee ta Yaughan: fetch me a
stoup of liquor.

Exit Second Clown

Dude digs n' sings

In youth, when I did love, did love,
Methought dat shiznit was straight-up dope,
To contract, O, tha time, for, ah, mah behove,
O, methought, there was not a god damn thang meet.
HAMLET
Has dis fellow no feelin of his bidnizz, dat he
sings at grave-making?
HORATIO
Custom hath juiced it up in his ass a property of easiness.
HAMLET
'Tis e'en so: tha hand of lil employment hath
the daintier sense.
First Clown
[Sings]
But age, wit his jackin steps,
Hath claw'd mah crazy ass up in his clutch,
And hath shipped mah crazy ass intil tha land,
As if I had never been such.

Throws up a skull

HAMLET
That skull had a tongue up in it, n' could rap once:
how tha knave jowls it ta tha ground, as if it were
Cainz jaw-bone, dat did tha straight-up original gangsta cappin' playa! It
might be tha pate of a sucka, which dis ass
now o'er-reaches; one dat would circumvent God,
might it not?
HORATIO
It might, mah lord.
HAMLET
Or of a cold-ass lil courtier; which could say 'Dope morrow,
sweet lord hommie! How tha fuck dost thou, phat lord?' This might
be mah lord such-a-one, dat praised mah lord
such-a-onez horse, when he meant ta beg it; might it not?
HORATIO
Ay, mah lord.
HAMLET
Why, e'en so: n' now mah Lady Worm's; chapless, and
knocked bout tha mazzard wit a sextonz spade:
herez fine revolution, a our crazy asses had tha trick to
see't. Did these bones cost no mo' tha breeding,
but ta play at loggats wit 'em, biatch? mine ache ta be thinkin on't.
First Clown
[Sings]
A pick-axe, n' a spade, a spade,
For n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shroudin sheet:
O, a pit of clay fo' ta be made
For such a hommie is meet.

Throws up another skull

HAMLET
Therez another: why may not dat be tha skull of a
lawyer, biatch? Where be his quidditizzles now, his quillets,
his cases, his cold-ass tenures, n' his cold-ass tricks, biatch? why do he
suffer dis rude knave now ta knock his ass bout the
sconce wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty shovel, n' aint gonna tell his ass of
his action of battery, biatch? Hum! This fellow might be
inz time a pimped out buyer of land, wit his statutes,
his recognizances, his wild lil' fines, his fuckin lil' double vouchers,
his recoveries: is dis tha fine of his wild lil' fines, and
the recovery of his bangin recoveries, ta have his wild lil' fine
pate full of fine dirt, biatch? will his vouchers vouch him
no mo' of his thugged-out lil' purchases, n' double ones too, than
the length n' breadth of a pair of indentures, biatch? The
very conveyancez of his fuckin landz will hardly lie in
this box; n' must tha inheritor his dirty ass have no more, ha?
HORATIO
Not a jot more, mah lord.
HAMLET
Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
HORATIO
Ay, mah lord, n' of calf-skins like a muthafucka.
HAMLET
They is sheep n' calves which seek up assurance
in dis shit. I'ma drop a rhyme ta dis fellow. Whose
gravez this, sirrah?
First Clown
Mine, sir.

Sings

O, a pit of clay fo' ta be made
For such a hommie is meet.
HAMLET
Yo ass KNOW it be thine, indeed; fo' thou liest in't.
First Clown
Yo ass lie up on't, sir, n' therefore it is not
yours: fo' mah part, I do not lie in't, n' yet it is mine.
HAMLET
'Thou dost lie in't, ta be in't n' say it is thine:
'tis fo' tha dead, not fo' tha quick; therefore thou liest.
First Clown
'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away gain, from me to
you.
HAMLET
What playa dost thou dig it for?
First Clown
For no dude, sir.
HAMLET
What biatch, then?
First Clown
For none, neither.
HAMLET
Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is ta be buried in't?
First Clown
One dat was a biatch, sir; but, rest her soul, her dope ass dead as fuckin fried chicken.
HAMLET
How tha fuck absolute tha knave is muthafucka! we must drop a rhyme by the
card, or equivocation will undo us. By tha Lord,
Horatio, these three muthafuckin years I have taken a note of
it; tha age is grown so picked dat tha toe of the
peasant comes so near tha heel of tha courtier, he
gaffs his kibe yo. How tha fuck long hast thou been a
grave-maker?
First Clown
Of all tha minutes i' tha year, I came to't dat day
that our last mackdaddy Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
HAMLET
How tha fuck long is dat since?
First Clown
Cannot you tell that, biatch? every last muthafuckin fool can tell that: dat shit
was tha straight-up dizzle dat lil' Hamlet was born; tha pimpin' muthafucka that
is mad, n' busted tha fuck into England.
HAMLET
Ay, marry, why was da perved-out muthafucka busted tha fuck into England?
First Clown
Why, cuz da thug was mad: da perved-out muthafucka shall recover his wits
there; or, if da ruffneck do not, itz no pimped out matta there.
HAMLET
Why?
First Clown
'Twill, a not be peeped up in his ass there; there tha men
are as mad as he.
HAMLET
How tha fuck came he mad?
First Clown
Straight-up strangely, they say.
HAMLET
How tha fuck strangely?
First Clown
Faith, e'en wit losin his wits.
HAMLET
Upon what tha fuck ground?
First Clown
Why, here up in Denmark: I done been sexton here, dude
and boy, thirty years.
HAMLET
How tha fuck long will a playa lie i' tha earth ere he rot?
First Clown
I' faith, if his thugged-out lil' punk-ass be not rotten before da ruffneck die--as we
have nuff pocky corses now-a-days, dat will scarce
hold tha layin in--he will last you some eight year
or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.
HAMLET
Why he mo' than another?
First Clown
Why, sir, his hide is so tanned wit his cold-ass trade, that
he will keep up wata a pimped out while; n' yo' water
is a sore decayer of yo' whoreson dead body.
Herez a skull now; dis skull has lain up in tha earth
three n' twenty years.
HAMLET
Whose was it?
First Clown
A whoreson mad fellowz it was: whose do you be thinkin it was?
HAMLET
Nay, I know not.
First Clown
A pestilence on his ass fo' a mad rogue biaaatch! a' poured a
flagon of Rhenish on mah head once. This same skull,
sir, was Yorickz skull, tha mackdaddyz jester.
HAMLET
This?
First Clown
E'en all dis bullshit.
HAMLET
Let me see.

Takes tha skull

Alas, skanky Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a gangbangin' fellow
of infinite jest, of most pimpin fancy: dat schmoooove muthafucka hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; n' now, how
abhorred up in mah imagination it is muthafucka! mah gorge rims at
it yo. Here hung dem lips dat I have busted I know
not how tha fuck oft. Where be yo' gibes now, biatch? your
gambols, biatch? yo' joints, biatch? yo' flashez of merriment,
that was aint gonna ta set tha table on a roar, biatch? Not one
now, ta mock yo' own grinning, biatch? like chap-fallen?
Now git you ta mah ladyz chamber, n' tell her, let
her paint a inch thick, ta dis favour she must
come; make her laugh at dis shit. Prithee, Horatio, tell
me one thang.
HORATIO
Whatz that, mah lord?
HAMLET
Dost thou be thinkin Alexander looked o' dis fashizzle i'
the earth?
HORATIO
E'en so.
HAMLET
And smelt so, biatch? pah!

Puts down tha skull

HORATIO
E'en so, mah lord.
HAMLET
To what tha fuck base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may
not imagination trace tha noble dust of Alexander,
till he find it stoppin a funky-ass bung-hole?
HORATIO
'Twere ta consider too curiously, ta consider so.
HAMLET
Fuck dat shit, faith, not a jot; but ta follow his ass thither with
modesty enough, n' likelihood ta lead it: as
thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried,
Alexander returneth tha fuck into dust; tha dust is earth; of
earth we make loam; n' why of dat loam, whereto he
was converted, might they not stop a funky-ass brew-barrel?
Imperious Caesar, dead n' turn'd ta clay,
Might stop a hole ta keep tha wind away:
O, dat that earth, which kept tha ghetto up in awe,
Should patch a wall ta expel tha winta flaw!
But soft son! but soft son! aside: here comes tha mackdaddy.

Enta Priest, & c. up in procession; tha Corpse of OPHELIA, LAERTES n' Mourners following; KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, they trains, & c

Da biatch, tha courtiers: whoz ass is dis they follow?
And wit such maimed rites, biatch? This doth betoken
Da corse they follow did wit desperate hand
Fordo its own game: 'twaz of some estate.
Couch we awhile, n' mark.

Retirin wit HORATIO

LAERTES
What ceremony else?
HAMLET
That is Laertes,
A straight-up noble youth: mark.
LAERTES
What ceremony else?
First Priest
Her obsequies done been as far enlarged
As our crazy asses have warrantise: her dirtnap was doubtful;
And yo, but dat pimped out command o'ersways tha order,
Bitch should up in ground unsanctified have lodged
Till tha last trumpet: fo' charitable lyrics,
Shards, flints n' pebblez should be thrown on her;
Yet here she be allow'd her virgin crants,
Her maiden strewments n' tha brangin home
Of bell n' burial.
LAERTES
Must there no mo' be done?
First Priest
No mo' be done:
We should profane tha steez of tha dead as fuckin fried chicken
To rap a requiem n' such rest ta her
As ta peace-parted souls.
LAERTES
Lay her i' tha earth:
And from her fair n' unpolluted flesh
May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,
A ministerin angel shall mah sista be,
When thou liest howling.
HAMLET
What, tha fair Ophelia!
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Sweets ta tha dope: farewell!

Scatterin flowers

I hoped thou shouldst done been mah Hamletz hoe;
I thought thy bride-bed ta have deck'd, dope maid,
And not have strew'd thy grave.
LAERTES
O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on dat cursed head,
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Deprived thee of! Hold off tha earth awhile,
Till I have caught her once mo' up in mine arms:

Leaps tha fuck into tha grave

Now pile yo' dust upon tha quick n' dead,
Till of dis flat a mountain you have made,
To o'ertop oldschool Pelion, or tha skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
HAMLET
[Advancing] What tha fuck iz da thug whose grief
Bears such a emphasis, biatch? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures tha wanderin stars, n' make dem stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers, biatch? This is I,
Hamlet tha Dane.

Leaps tha fuck into tha grave

LAERTES
Da devil take thy soul!

Grapplin wit him

HAMLET
Thou pray'st not well.
I prithee, take thy fingers from mah throat;
For, though I aint splenitizzle n' rash,
Yet have I suttin' up in me dangerous,
Which let thy wisenizz fear: hold off thy hand.
KING CLAUDIUS
Pluck dem asunder.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Hamlet, Hamlet playa!
All
Gentlemen,--
HORATIO
Dope mah lord, be on tha fuckin' down-low.

Da Attendants part them, n' they come outta tha grave

HAMLET
Why I'ma fight wit his ass upon dis theme
Until mah eyelidz will no longer wag.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O mah son, what tha fuck theme?
HAMLET
I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers
Could not, wit all they quantitizzle of love,
Make up mah sum. What wilt thou do fo' her?
KING CLAUDIUS
O, he is mad, Laertes.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
For ludd of God, forbear his muthafuckin ass.
HAMLET
'Swounds, show me what tha fuck thou'lt do:
Woo't weep, biatch? woo't fight, biatch? woo't fast, biatch? woo't tear thyself?
Woo't drank up eisel, biatch? smoke a cold-ass lil crocodile?
I be bout ta do't. Dost thou come here ta whine?
To outface me wit leapin up in her grave?
Be buried quick wit her, n' so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let dem throw
Millionz of acres on us, till our ground,
Singein his thugged-out lil' pate against tha burnin unit,
Make Ossa like a wart son! Nay, a thou'lt grill,
I be bout ta rant as well as thou.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
This is mere madness:
And thus awhile tha fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as tha biatch dove,
When dat her golden couplets is disclosed,
His silence will sit drooping.
HAMLET
Hear you, sir;
What tha fuck iz tha reason dat you use me thus?
I loved you ever: but it is no matter;
Let Herculez his dirty ass do what tha fuck he may,
Da pussaaaaay will mew n' dawg gonna git his fuckin lil' day.

Exit

KING CLAUDIUS
I pray you, phat Horatio, wait upon his muthafuckin ass.

Exit HORATIO

To LAERTES

Strengthen yo' patience up in our last nightz speech;
We bout ta put tha matta ta tha present push.
Dope Gertrude, set some peep over yo' son.
This grave shall gotz a livin monument:
An minute of on tha down-low shortly shall we see;
Till then, up in patience our proceedin be.

Exeunt