Mike Allen is the unsleeping, all-knowing author of Politico's Playbook, a morning newsletter Washington consumes with its first round of caffeine. It's usually delivered, like the coffee, sans sugar--a simple list of the day's important political events, birthdays, etc.

But today is not just any day. It's election day--cue tearful oratory. Here is today's opening Playbook paragraph:

On Election Day, the messy sport of politics turns very human. It's an emotional time in a clinical business--all swathed in the chaos of final chores, so it won't sink in until some quiet moment after a little sleep. One of the Mikey Rules of Living is: "Ya never know." You miss a flight, you meet your wife. Today, you're running the West Wing; tomorrow, you're begging the other side for tours. A wild victory turns out to be ephemeral. (And they all are.) A crushing loss leads to greater glory. When we were hired by The New York Times back in 1998, we threw away our clips: We assumed we would never have another job. We've had some great adventures since then. So ya never know. Playbook's wish for the competitors is: Soak it in - people will write books about this day. Enjoy the ride--the bonds from this campaign will last your life. Give someone grace, a break, karma--we all need it sooner or later, usually sooner. Thank you for putting up with the press, and congratulations on your hard work and dedication to something larger than yourself. Good luck. Godspeed. Play ball!

What we think Allen's really trying to say is this:

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Good luck. Godspeed. Death to the French dogs!

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Heather Horn