Dem
51
GOP
49
Today, a trio of biting takes on two Christmas classics. First, J.T.B. in Manhattan, NY, with a spin on "White Christmas":
I'm dreaming of a white pigment
Just like the one I used to know
Where the Klan hoods glisten
And Fox "News" listeners
Heil Hitler in the snow
I'm dreaming of a white pigment
With every imm'grant ban I write
May all gays be harried with fright
And may all our citizens be white.
And now, R.B. in Chicago, IL reimagines "T'was the Night Before Christmas":
T'was the month before Iowa, with commercials over the air,
But not a thing was stirring, not even Don's hair:
The ex-pres missed all the Republican debates,
He refused to partake with those other lightweights:
Instead he sat in a hostile courtroom afar,
Making fake accusations, some that were even bizarre:
He challenged the judge and his imposed gag order,
While it was appealed, he created more disorder:
Then down in Florida there was such a clatter,
The stalling of his trial was all the chatter:
Judge Cannon was dragging her slow legal feet,
Hoping this case would move on to take a backseat:
But in Atlanta his racketeering companions did flip,
Many took the plea deal, when they lost their firm grip:
He continues to whine and make motions to stall,
Reducing the legal system to a monotonous crawl:
Don continues to maneuver and downplay his transgressions,
The results of 2020 were still his main obsessions:
How could he have lost to an old sleepy man,
Why, Joe doesn't even have a fake orange tan:
But now he's surrounded by his true loyal lackeys,
Who travel to Mar-a-Lago to kneel in their khakis:
They praise and adore him at his over estimated estate,
While they planned to elect him until twenty-twenty-eight:
New Speaker! Now, Jordan! Now, Greene and Graham!
On, McCarthy! On, Gaetz, let's continue this scam!
To the halls of our Congress they all carried lies,
Doing little to pass laws or even compromise:
He continues to berate and belittle his foes,
No matter if it's Haley, Christie or Joe:
"It was stolen from me," he exclaimed to the masses,
"It was stolen by Sleepy Joe in those dark glasses!"
And a different take on the same work, from B.K.S. in Salem, OR:
T'was the night before Christmas, stores teeming with mobs,
everyone was exhausted, because they all had two jobs.
We had just arrived home at the hour of eleven,
the fast food, hurriedly grabbed, smelled just like heaven.
The children were already sleeping, and we had presents to wrap
(though with late-stage capitalism, it was mostly cheap crap).
We sat to begin, our meal and third job of the day
when from outside someone shrieked "It's a sin to be gay!"
I ran to the window and looked out in the yard
grabbing my pistol and preparing to guard.
A tint of orange fell on mostly wet range,
no snow as of yet due to climate change.
And what do I see, pretending to labor?
an armored SUV and eight tiny enablers.
With a sour-faced passenger, a dour old grump
I knew in an instant it must be Don Trump.
More hungry than vultures, his apologists they came
and he mostly ignored them, but called them by name:
"Now Jordan! Now Gaetz!
Now, Greene and Boebert!
On, Brooks! On, Johnson!
On Comer and Gohmert!
Now off to the media!
(especially Fox News)
and project onto Democrats
everything that I do!"
Like creatures of mist they vanished into the night,
and for a moment I stood there, shocked at the sight.
A toady hopped out, withered and hunched to the floor,
dye dripping down his cheek, he opened the side door.
"What the hell, Rudy? We're here for what reason?
I thought you told me that this was Four Seasons?"
He huffed and schlepped and shuffled up to the house
Kicking over some decor on the way: three candy canes, a shepherd, and a Christmas mouse.
(I would have defended my home, each man has his castle,
but the Secret Service had come from the back and were covering this hassle.)
His suit was ill-fitting, red tie down to his waist
it was bunched up and wrinkled, made by a tailor in haste.
He had an orange pallor, the pancake on thick,
thin hair petrified cover, all black-magic tricks.
He didn't stop at the stoop, and had a frown on his face,
and he just barged right in as if he owned the place.
"There isn't a pageant?" he said, his expression quite drab.
"I suppose there's no dressing room either, and nothing to grab?"
He puffed out his chest and leaned forward, his mouth drawn out to an "O,"
and I wondered if my wall would be soon covered in ketchup from a throw.
But then his eyes alighted on the fireplace, the mantle,
and he noticed our worldly treasures: ten vases, arrayed between candles.
He grabbed the one marked Obamacare and smashed it with glee.
"I'll replace it with something better, vote Trump and you'll see!"
The one for Environment he covered in red tape,
and filled it with oil, and coal, and lies, and hate.
Sovereignty went out the window, to shatter from his fling,
"Vlad will like that, and Kim, Orbán and Jinping!"
Like a cat, he pushed Justice to crash to the floor,
I waited, but he didn't bother to explain that one more.
He hit Peace and Truth and Autonomy with a hammer,
stuffed Equity and Health in his coat in an obvious manner.
He reached Wages, and froze them but added five bucks,
"The rich deserve more, so be thankful, you dumb schmucks."
Then he left in a huff, but on his way back
he stopped at my table and stole my Big Mac.
He said while he ate, now all sweaty and irked,
"Vote for Trump! Not the meatball, the birdbrain, the slob or the jerk!"
We sat in the wreckage, wondering what just went wrong,
his words in my brain rang loud like a gong.
But we don't like that Israel or Hamas is given no lumps,
By Biden, too old, so we're still voting Trump!
We'll have a couple more before wrapping it up for the season. (Z)