‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through DC,
Not a leader was crying, not even John B;
The tax cuts were hung by the wealthy with care,
In hopes that some trickle down soon would be there;
The Baggers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of misspelled signs danced in their heads;
And Boehner in his feeties, and Mitch in his pond,
Had just settled bills with the Pres who’s Ken-yan.
When out on the feed there arose such a clatter,
Rush sprang from his bed like a cow only fatter.
Away to Fox News, they flew like a flash,
Where Rupert was busy just counting his cash.
The loons and the beasts in their fair-balanced shows
Gave the lustre of insight to IQ’s below,
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a female McCarthy, and a campaign they fear.
With a folksy old hatred, with lying and spin,
They knew that their nom she really could win.
More rapid than eagles her Facebook page came,
And she tweeted, and texted, and called all a name;
“Now, Marxist! now, Man-Up! now, Lamestream and Racist!
On, Flaccid! on Stupid! on, Commie and Sexist!
To the top of the pack! To the top of the polls!
Now slash away! Slash away! Slash away doles!”
And then, in a twinkling, she had a new book
The stroking and fawning of each news network.
She thought talking heads’d turn reason around,
Down the book charts poor Sarah did drop with a bound.
She was dressed all in fur, from her head to her knee,
And her soul was all tarnished with ambition and greed;
A bundle of knives she had flung into backs,
And old John McCain was reduced to a hack.
Her eyes — how they wink-led! “You Betcha!”, how merry!
Her look was so vacant, her ignorance scary!
Her sour little mouth was drawn up like a net,
And her lack of a conscience would frighten a pet;
The stump speech she gives is writ large on her hand,
And the crowd that she speaks to she plays like a band;
She has a small base but is always on telly,
A famous creature like that one by Miss Shelly.
She is strident and loud, annoying and shrill,
And she laughed when she clubbed a fish, making a kill.
A wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Soon gave all to know she was prob’ly off meds.
She spoke not a word, at least one that we’ve heard,
And cable was filled with such droppings of birds,
And laying her platform beside Orwell’s tome,
Of course she would call the GOP home;
She sprang to campaign, to her team said “What-If?”,
And away they all ran like lem-mings off a cliff.
But they heard her exclaim, ere she veered out of sight,
“I won’t quit till I’ve quit, two years sounds about right!”