Ripped off from Clement Clark Moore!
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the indie author house
Not a writer was stirring, not even a mouse;
The ARC s were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Pearson or similar soon would be there;
The writers were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions from the Bourbon danced in their heads;
And a some strange in just her ‘kerchief, and I in only my cap,
Had just banged our brains out before a long winter’s nap,
When out on Facebook there arose such a chatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the computer I flew like a flash,
Tore open the laptop and threw up in the trash.
The moon on the breast (Really?) of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday for the hookers below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a stretch limo, that struck me with fear.
Trump had a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in that moment, he is just such a dick.
More rapid than eagles (L.O.L) his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Stephen Baldwin! now, Charlie Sheen! now Mike Tyson and Willie Robertson!
On, Ted Nugent! on, Mike Ditka! on, Dennis Rodman and Hulk Hogan!
To the top of the Porches! to the top of publicity’s call!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the limo full of prostitutes, and Trump too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little goof.
As I drew a bead, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Trump came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were not tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of money he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how scary!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose quite hairy!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the look on his face was as white as the snow;
The stump of my gun barrel he held tight in his teeth,
So I shot him.
(The Directors Cut with an alternate ending…)
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he yelled, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right miserly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A final blink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to hell for his work,
Could have filled all the stockings; but was just such a jerk,
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
And stuffing the body, up the chimney he rose;
He was carried to his sleigh, his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”