For the past five years, I have “repurposed” the classic “A Visit from Saint Nicholas” in response to the then-current political environment. Each year I think that I have run out of reasons to adapt the poem to current times. And yet, each new year (unfortunately) brings renewed opportunities to revamp Clement Clarke Moore’s popular holiday poem into a satirical send-up of the downside of America’s political poltergeist.
2017 promises to make the past five years pale in comparison to what lies ahead for us with a cabinet comprised of billionaires and millionaires that will be headed by a deeply wounded president whose addictive need for the drug of adulation no 12-step program could help.
So, without further ado, here’s this year’s interpretation with, once again, apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.
Twas the night of Election, when all through the nation,
Forecasts caused the Right despair and deflation;
The polls were all open, suppression in some,
In hopes that the Trump would soon overcome.
What the pundits were saying, all snug on their screens,
With visions of Hillary whom Donald demeans.
And I, with other liberals, despising their crap,
Had just settled in for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the airwaves there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the wide screen I flew like a flash,
Started to shiver when I saw our side crash.
The loon on Fox News on his truth-bending show,
Gave a lustre to red states as they continued to grow.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But Kellyanne Conway and her Twitter-bound seer,
With Sen. Jeff Sessions so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment whose foot he would lick,
More rapid than eagles Donald’s suitors they came,
And he tweeted, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now Christie! Now Ross! Now Giuliani and Mnuchin!
On Mattis! On Tillerson! On Raymond and Palin!”
To the top of Trump Tower! To watch the Dems fall!
Now Tweet away! Tweet away! Tweet away all!”
With voter suppression at an all-time high
And voter lines so long to make one cry;
So out to all talk shows, the minions they flew
With a sleigh full of lies, and Nate Silver, too —
I heard, in a twinkling, the most dismal proof,
Saw the dancing and prancing of each little goof
Who believed all the promises, totally unsound,
That lacked any evidence, much less solid ground.
He was dressed in his ego, from his head to his foot,
His hair newly sprayed, moderation kaput;
A bundle of ploys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his face downright scary!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow;
Kept pointing his finger in this new reality show;
The noise from his voice through Hollywood teeth,
Made promises that encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a glistening face and a little round belly
That shook when he shouted, on our national telly.
He was cheery and grumpy, so full of himself
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had so much to dread;
He promised he would put us all back to work,
And thrilled all his followers; they just went berserk.
And laying that finger aside of his nose,
Looked hard at the media he loved to bulldoze.
He sprang to his family, to Bannon gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, it just made me bristle.
I felt myself think, as he drove out of sight —
“Happy Christmas to all — yeh, right!”
Shelburne resident John Bos
invites dialogue at john01370@gmail.com.