Bos/My Turn: Holiday tale with a twist

’Twas the Night Before Christmas or my Account of a Visit from Santa Cruz with deep apologies to Major Henry Livingston Jr. (1748-1828) previously believed to be by Clement Clarke Moore

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the House

Tea Partiers were scheming to be the top louse;

With protesters around them, they just didn’t care,

In hopes that Santa Cruz soon would be there;

Poor children were huddled in unheated beds,

With visions of hopelessness in their sweet heads;

Their mothers worn out by Tea Party crap,

Despaired and lay down for a cold winter’s nap,

On the White House lawn there arose such a clatter,

They sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.

Away to their windows they flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to the angels below,

When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,

But liberals and progressives, all of them dear.

With a handsome bold leader, so lively and quick,

They knew in a moment it was not tricky Dick.

Lobbyists, legislators and commentators to blame,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now DeMint! now Palin! now Bachmann, you vixon!

Oh, Cantor! oh stupid Santorum, you who the Koch brothers keep on afixin!”

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

They take on Obamacare which they love to decry,

So up to Fox News, the Tea Partiers flew,

With a sleigh full of ploys, and some old Ayn Rand, too.

And then, without blinking, without any proof

The prancing and pawing of each little goof,

Wanting to not lose any more ground,

Called for Santa Cruz, and his ego unbound.

He was dressed in sharkskin, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished, not one to pussyfoot,

A bundle of social service cuts he plans to whack,

And he looked like a sniper ready to attack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! His demeanor how scary!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose very airy,

His droll Texas mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the sweat on his chin portended more woe;

The stump of a gavel he held tight in his teeth,

While support for the poor he would never bequeath;

He had a mean face and a conservative belly,

That shook, when he spoke, like something quite smelly.

He was lean and he was mean, a quite righteous self,

And I cringed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A twitch of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had a lot more to dread;

He spoke simple words, while doing dirty work,

Not caring for immigrants, oh what a jerk!

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

Gave everyone the bird while I simply froze;

He strutted away, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like a runaway missile.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,


John Bos lives in Shelburne Falls and believes that capitalism might have a chance of really working were it not for country’s military/industrial complex, corporate “personhood” and the myth of a “free” market. He invites dialogue at

There are no comments yet. Be the first!
Post a Comment

You must be registered to comment on stories. Click here to register.