I once worked for a regional branch of the National Archives, whose historical documents included a sentencing penned by U.S. District Judge Isaac Parker, the "hanging judge." Parker's poetic words conveyed, on the eve of their execution, the rather bleak future of a murderous varmint. I once had them committed to memory; now, regrettably, I can only paraphrase, and but poorly:
Tomorrow, the sun will rise and the birds will chirp, but you won't be there. Children will play and scamp in the streets to the delight of us all, but you won't be there. Life will go on in its many felicities, but you won't be there — for I hereby sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.
Today, on the eve of President-elect Biden's inauguration, I recall Judge Parker's unsentimental sentencing with immense joy. America's sun will rise tomorrow and its birds will chirp, its children will play and our lives will go on — without, at long last, the abhorrent, White House criminality of Donald J. Trump.
For he won't be there.