The Nightmare Before the Elections
( with apologies to Clement Moore )
‘Twas the week before elections, with a pall o’er the House
Not a preacher demurring o’er what Foley espoused.
The mockings were flung for Dick Cheney’s repair,
In the hopes the electorate just wouldn’t care.
The brainchildren all wrestled to tug in the threads
Of conservative visions all tattered in shreds.
And Dub went to worship, catapulting his pap…
I’m embattled and drained from his false terror flap.
Then on the East lawn among the roses and chatter
They sang for the dead, hoping polls wouldn’t matter.
Prayed for the widows with new found panache,
Tore open their coffers, and withdrew out the cash.
The goons around the crest of the faux Tony Snow
Gave this bluster of heyday an official-ish glow.
Then, besot with his blundering lies, there appeared,
An immature hombre, in black shiny rain gear.
He slipped a high fiver, so snidely and slick
I knew he could foment and cut to the quick.
Most vapid and illegal his curses brought shame,
As he bristled and pouted and sought to inflame.
“Now trash her! Now lance her! Pelosi that vixen!
On, Condi! On, stupid! On Donald and Blitzer!
Don’t stop with the torch, we’ve got to appall!
Now smash away! Bash away! Slash away all!”
My dry heaves aborted this crack cocaine guy,
Yet he was cool as a popsicle, this viscount of the sly.
But down from the House-top, the charges they grew,
From the pages, just boys, nicked all Republicans too.
But then in a sprinkling of words without truth
The hemming and hawing about each little goof.
He drew in a bead, and started spinning it ’round,
Through the gutter he drug us, naming all of us clowns.
He impressed with his fury, far from dead, not kaput,
And his nails were all varnished as he lashed at the webroot.
He trundled the page boys through the dung in attack,
And he cooked, this old meddler, for his pederast pack.
His lies were so wrinkled! So simple, how scary!
These tweaks to our noses, from his fancy blackberry!
This troll of a lout conned up a great row,
Then came word of OUR sins from the white-lied Tony Snow.
He stumped for the right, led the fight to bequeath
The Democrat’s Party a big funeral wreath.
He had a broad base of the unsound and smelly,
Who took what he passed, this little piggy pot belly.
He was no tubby mugwump, and right full of himself
And I gagged when I saw him, all the spite on his shelf…
The fink and his lies were the grist of my dread,
But his team-up with Diebold left me feeling quite dead.
He joked, “that he’d heard…”, set out straight to besmirch,
And then stuffed all the boxes, threw returns in a lurch.
And flaunting his lingering gerrymandering of foes,
And grinning fa