Everyone recalls listening to Clement Clarke Moore’s 1822 poem, “The Night Before Christmas.” If you are d’un certain âge, perhaps you made a ritual of watching the poem’s televised version featuring the Beaton marionettes. Even though you knew Santa Claus didn’t really exist, there was something about those stringed puppets that made you arch an eyebrow and wonder, just maybe…
Well, as Cher’s character in Moonstruck said, “Snap out of it!”
Here’s a 2020 version of the poem I believe Cher would like.
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, A CONTEMPORARY VERSION
‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house
Not a creature stirred, not even Stephen Miller, the louse;
Trump’s lawyers dumped their briefs in the fireplace with care,
In bigly hopes the boss’s tranquilizers soon would be there.
The trump kids were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of grifted money danced in their heads;
Melania stayed busy being best whilst Donald fiddled with his phone,
And tweeted untruths to his army of gnomes.
When out near the South lawn there arose such a clatter,
D.T. stumbled from his chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, tiny steps NOT in a flash,
He tore back the drapes and peered past the sash.
Then what to his shifty eyes should appear,
But a reinforced limo and folks wearing protective gear.
The car’s passenger jumped out so lively and quick,
Trump knew in an instant it wasn’t St. Nick.
He’d fired the bearded senior back in 2017,
for committing the crime of not being mean.
Worse than that, Trump thought, were all the clothes and toys
jelly-belly gave freely to undocumented girls and boys.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Lit the scene like the lights on Fox and Friends show.
D.T. saw how rapidly the Democrat strode
He heard him shout, “Jill, this is our new abode!”
Ignoring the chimney, Biden walked through the door,
And calmly declared he would settle the score.
Without bluster or fanfare he let Trump know
All the chaos and division were destined to go.
New POTUS spoke few words, but made plans for his work,
He nodded at Obama’s portrait, then glared at the one of the jerk.
Returning to his limo, to his security peeps he gave a whistle.
Away they all drove like the liftoff of a missile.
Trump heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
“HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, INCLUDING THOSE WHO VOTED RED,
TO EVERYONE A GOOD NIGHT! NOW IT’S TIME FOR BED!”
Renée Bess is the author of five novels and the co-story collector of the 2018 Goldie Award winning anthology, Our Happy Hours, LGBT Voices From the Gay Bars. Since receiving one of the four 2019 Alice B. Readers’ Awards, she’s worked on a collection of her short stories, poems, and creative non-fiction. The collection, Between a Rock and a Soft Place, will be published on February 1, 2021, by Flashpoint Publications. http://www.reneebess.com
©Renée Bess 2020