Twas the Day After Christmas…

Twas The Day After Christmas, and businesses groused

Not a customer was buying the goods they espoused;

The stockings marked down with the silk underwear,

At Victoria’s Secret with Heidi Klum and fanfare;

The children were vessels all plugged full of dread,

With visions of special toys so tainted with lead;

Mom finished her tiff, and like I gave a crap,

We steeled ourselves now, for the Mall Vender’s traps,

Moving out at pre-dawn to the Bose salesman’s chatter,

We sprang for the bread our accounts all a-tatter.

A new copy of Windows, I blew a hundred in cash,

Poor hard drive a flutter from MP3 trash.

By noon I’d the rest of the discounted fake snow

Gave Blockbuster my payday in objectified glow,

When, what to my squandering eyes should appear,

But a caricature sleigh, with chase lighted reindeer,

With a brittle conniver, so snidely and slick,

I knew he could foment, it must be the Veep Dick!

More vapid than regal his curses and blame,

And he bristled, and pouted, and called me such names;

“You basher! You cancer! You trasher of Nixon!

Commit! Are you stupid? Don’t ponder, forget sin!

Your cards, you must scorch! At the shops and the Malls!

Now, lay-away! Lay-away! Lay-away all!”

My dry heaves they soared from this “American” guy

Then I felt cold as a Popsicle on account of his lies,

In spite of the House Stop, the outsourcers they grew,

Making hay for the boys, and that old Veep Dick, too.

And then, I’d an inkling, I was spurred by the proof

The pandering and fawning o’er each major goof.

As I drew line in the sand, returning a gown

Out the stove pipe came Veep Dick, with a gun and bloodhound.

He impressed with his cur, his eyes dead and kaput

His clothes camouflaged, he did not pussyfoot;

A bundle of ploys he now slung out like flack,

And the crooked old meddler just opened his attack,

His lies… how this fink told! So simple and scary!

Double speak he imposes, his nose never varies!

His snarled little mouth has whipsawn like a pro

And the jeer in his spin, what a fright was this show:

“You chump, all this hype fights al-Qaeda, good grief!

You’re not broke, just indentured ’til dead to the Chief!

We have a broad base, they’re a little bit smelly,

We took (then he laughed) all their jobs to New Dehli!

This Dubya’s a Gump, about as bright as a shelf,

And I laugh when I use him, in spite of myself!

Just a wink from my eye has twisted his head,

So soon, don’t you know, I’ll have everyone’s bread!”

I spoke some foul words, hoped to deflate his smirk,

But he returned all his stockings; then short-changed the clerk,

Then using his finger in surmising his prose,

And flipping a bird, up the stove pipe he rose;

A bang and a spray, from upstream, little missiles,

His scattergun blew, as to crown his epistle.

But I heard him proclaim, ere I dove out of fright,

“After Christmas is ALL, and to all a good buy.”