A Visit From St. Hillary

What would Christmas be without a political parody on a classic poem.

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With sincerest apologies to Democrats everywhere and, once again, to Clement Clark Moore.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, in two-thousand six;
All the lefties were bustling; their Party to fix.
The vote had gone centrist, they struggled for air,
And hoped that St. Hillary soon would declare.
As liberals awaited, awake in their beds,
Impeachable articles danced in their heads!
But since moderate Dems had prevailed in their views,
I’d just settled down to a sweet solstice snooze.

When out on the Beltway arose such a clatter,
I headed for Fox News to check out the chatter.
I reached for my clicker with partisan glee;
But only to witness a blacked-out TV.
The moon through the window cast light all about
And showed me quite clearly the plug had come out.
When what did I see on the former dark screen
But the visage of DNC chair Howard Dean!

When he introduced someone with wings on his back;
I knew in a moment it must be Barack.
More rapid than eagles his worshippers came,
When he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dorgan! Now, Durbin! Now, Eliot Spitzer!
On, Matthews! On, Russert! On, Woodruff and Blitzer!
To the Sunday news shows! To the National Mall!
Now moderate! Moderate! Moderate all!”

As big bucks before dirty congressmen fly,
When they meet with flush lobbyists, eager to buy;
To placate the middle and dogs that are blue,
They dumped Alcee Hastings, and John Murtha too!
But then in a twinkling, I saw on the set,
A startling scene that I’ll never forget;
As I grabbed for my clicker to turn up the sound,
Through my Sony, St. Hillary came with a bound!

She was bathed all in Earth tones from head down to toe,
With a big goofy grin, ala H. Ross Perot;
Her eyes — how they sparkled! Her cheeks were so rosy!
Her little pug nose just like Nancy Pelosi!
Her actions were strange and her tone made me wary,
She dressed like Babs Bush but she talked like John Kerry!
She turned with a jerk in a move that was deft,
Then she zig-zagged to center, before lurching left.

She spoke of Obama in tones that were hushed;
(But she couldn’t conceal that her forehead was flushed).
“Barack is a rock star, his feats superhuman;
(Though born with the ears of an Alfred E. Neuman).
His face is quite winsome, his teeth white and pearly;
(But to covet my White House; it’s rather too early!)
And he could be elected; it may come to pass;
(But he hasn’t a record, and no gravitas.)”

Her handlers were nervous, her stance was a fright;
As her feet kept on dancing between left and right!
Barack was a problem, he filled them with fear;
And they needed to think up a plan that was clear.
But Hill had recovered, she filled them with smiles,
When she shouted out, “Get me his FBI files!”

And I watched her exclaim with a flip-flopping gait,
“HAPPY CHRISTMAS, Obama! At least till ‘08!”