My Christmas poem for DU: "Twas the Night Before Bailout"

[Peace Patriot]

T'was the night before Bailout, when all through the land
the rich men like beggars had stuck out their hands.
The poor had been robbed of their medical care
in hopes that the poor would soon not be there--
and their jobs and their homes, and their savings, too,
and their pensions--whatever they had, to make do--
the rich men plundered all, they couldn't have been badder,
and then sprang from their corporate jets to finish the matter.

Away to our leaders they flew like a flash
Tore into the White House and demanded more cash.
At the end of the hideous Bushwhack regime
Not a penny was left for the rich men to glean,
when, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
but Saint Bushwhack himself with his infamous leer,
that little 'ol cowpoke, so ugly and slick,
they knew in a moment he'd be their St. Nick.

Now, Nancy! now, Henry! now, Joe and Barack!
On, Johnnie! on Sarah! on, Jabber 'n' Wock!
To the Federal Reserve and onto Fort Knox!
It's a Crisis! It's a crisis! Gotta hold us some talks!"

As wild sharks in a frenzy to crisis do rush
when they meet with a president with brains like mush
So up to the White House the fascists they flew
With a sleigh full of looting proposals to do.

And then, in a twinkling, the roof did cave in
on the destitute bankers, those poor little men.
As they put out their hands and opened their pockets
showers of gold rained down on them like rockets.

He was dressed in gold spangles, with gold spurs on his boots
He looked kind of like Elvis, in one of those sequined cowboy suits,
The golden lasso he had flung overhead
had roped him a calf made of gold from the Fed.

His eyes--how they glittered! his nose like a cherry!
The truth of it is that he looked like a fairy!
His droll little mouth was poked out like a chimp's
And his effort to swagger resembled a pimp's.

The pipe that he smoked had a strange silver shine
And the snow that shook off it weren't the real snowy kind.
He had a small mean face and he clanked when he walked
from the ghosts who were trailing him from the land of Iraq.

He was angry yet glitzy-- a sort of rightwing mirage--
And they cringed at the vehicle he drove out of the garage.
The twitch in his eye and the twist of his head
soon gave them to know that St. Bush wuddint dead.

He jibbered and jabbered, and went straight to his work
and filled the gold stockings of all of these jerks.
and laying a finger aside of his nose
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
And away it all flew like a Patriot missile--
Generations of solvency, gone in a whistle.
But they heard him exclaim, as he drove the gold caddy
"Heh-heh-heh, Amurka! Who's your Daddy?"


Peace Patriot 12/24/08 (typos corrected 12/25/08)
(Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

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Also posted at:
http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=389x4714043
http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=132x8032829
http://journals.democraticunderground.com/Peace%20Patriot