‘Twas the night before a liberal Christmas,
when all through the government subsidized house
not a liberal was stirring, because the welfare checks hadn’t been mailed out.…
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that Saint Obama soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of their absentee-fathers danced in their heads.
And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and her pimp with his ‘gat,
had just lit up a joint to set up a police officer’s trap.
When out in the street gunfire arose such a clatter,
I ignored it at first because this was Chicago and it was not my matter.
But away to the window I staggered like a drunk
to see what was happening and causing this funk.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the luster of midday to looters below,
then, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight social justice volunteers.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it was Obama and his same ol’ scthick.
More rapid than welfare recipients, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Holder! Now Sharpton!
Now, Jackson and Pelosi!
On, Biden! On, Jarratt!
On, Earnest and Reid!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now tax away! Tax away!
Tax away all!”
Like illegal immigrants crossing the border like flies –
I mean undocumented Democrats who needn’t apply,
so up to the house-top the race-baiters they flew,
with a sleigh full of taxes, and Saint Obama too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney St. Obama came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and this trip was paid for by your taxes to boot.
An empty bag he had draped on his back,
He looked like an OWS protestor just before they attack.
His eyes–how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
He knew that robbing – I mean taxing – this house
would be like taking candy from a baby!
The stump of a bong he held tight in his teeth,
and the crack-smoke encircled his head like a wreath.
He was cool and hip, a reincarnated Che Guevara,
and that a post-racial America was the era we’re in.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon told me wealth redistribution would begin.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
“taxing” my belongings, then turned with a jerk.
And taking a drag on his bong with smoke coming out of his nose,
He gave me a tax bill before up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Income equality for all, if they don’t vote me in twice!”