‘Twas the yawn before the holiday; you know of which I speak.
Not a punter was shopping, not even a post-Black-Friday peep.
The billboards were bright-shining on the streets below that glared,
In hope that no infrastructure would ever be spared.
The doomsayers were glued to the latest i-dreads,
While visions of paranoia droned in their heads.
And a cat with no whiskers, and I with my crap,
Had just drank our brains out, and man we were zapped!

When out on the porch, someone dropped political matter,
I sat on my couch, my mind much too scattered.
On the TV, there appeared another newsflash,
I reached for the dial but knocked over our stash.
Then, the moon of a beast, from the window it trolled,
Blasted its bluster; its less-than-virtuous notions extolled.
When what to my stupor and disinterest did appear,
Yet another populist fascist with an agenda of fear!
He squatted on the lawn, crawled atop his soapbox,
He preached ‘bout the end times and the trendy new pox.
Along came some zombies—his constituents no doubt,
“It’s the immigrants to blame!” they all shouted out.
A long list of scapegoats were drawn up so very quick,
I knew in a moment this was that old groupthink shtick.

Then upon my window knocked two old bats with vigor,
Baring angry signs about God, hairnets, piss, and vinegar.
They belched up damnation and offered to save my soul.
I cried, “Tell it to Sweeney,” and dismissed their hyperbole.
As I drew the curtains closed, one of them threw a brick.
I flipped her the bird—and the other one called me a prick!
More rapid than herpes, obscenities did fly,
Asking me why I cared not, why, oh, why, oh, why.
They offered a compromise: my agreeing to disagree.
“Nope! I’m a non-conformist,” I retorted with glee.
Soon came flying eggs, shoes, yogurt, and more spam!
“Sheeple! Off my lawn!” I hollered from my doorjamb.

Then a pseudo-intelligent comedian turned topic-oriented talk-show host,
Spoon-fed pabulum to the zealots, turning their minds to toast.
And he whistled, pouted, and called them all nicknames.
He cracked a few jokes and explained the new political games!
“Now, Liberals! Now, Conservatives! Pay attention to my soundbites!
On, nationalists! On, patriots! Get ready for a fight!
To the top of the Capitol, Parliament, and the old outhouse,
We are all in this together, and there’s a conspiracy in the house!
Now bash away! Bash away! Bash away and …
Don’t forget to leave a little cash in my blessed hand!”
On boob tubes across the nation he flashed his toothy grin.
On every cloned channel, much to my chagrin.
He flashed his “Press” credentials to sensationalize his views,
He offered his skewed analysis, and he called it the news!
With fire and brimstone, he called out detractors,
And heckled the few who dared call him an actor.

So I pulled the plug and was going to call the police,
But they were already there, supposedly keeping the peace.
For some overtime pay, they had turned security guard,
To lay out the law—and to lay it our hard!
And to the few cracked skulls, who had come to protest the throng,
They shouted, “Nothing to see here, folks. Please, move along.”

As the crowd practiced their goose-stepping, someone pointed to the sky.
Like a fast-moving comet, that obvious Coke glutton, Santa Claus, drew nigh.
In a sleigh with eight reindeer, he sat with good humor,
With a red sack at his back marked, “Only for Nice Consumers.”
But for the naughty below, he did not come empty-handed;
He pulled a lever at his side and then reprimanded,
“You’re all equally guilty! Ho! Ho! No!”
Then, on the chanting crowd, he dropped a load of black coal.
And I heard him groan as he drove out of sight,
“It’s Christmas Eve, goddamn it! It’s going to be a long night!”

“Equally guilty,” is what he had said.
That was a message that really went to my head.
So now, I’m practicing therapeutic apathy;
Can you blame me with all this social atrophy?
We’ve all been manipulated for much too long,
So to all concerned I say, “Scram!” and “Please, move along.”
It’s all mental masturbation: inclusion, seclusion—just nip it all in the bins,
And leave me alone to my thoughts and to my own original sins.
Tune in and drop out, or sit on it and spin.
I’m tired of this bullshit; I’d rather be drinking gin.

So before the old year is out, and the new one rung in with cheer or jeer,
I remind you all to practice social-distancing;
It’s not just the pandemic, you should fear!

Based on A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore. Happy Holidays! Please consider purchasing my books below to help support my work, and to get a good laugh. Thank You!