'Twas the Night Before Fitzmas - Democratic Underground

Sparkly

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Sat May-13-06 08:56 PM
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'Twas the Night Before Fitzmas

Edited on Sat May-13-06 08:57 PM by Sparkly

'Twas the night before Fitzmas, when all through DU
All the members were breathless, just hoping it’s true.
Champagne bottles chilled, hopeful emails were mailed,
in hopes that the Turd Blossom soon would be jailed.

The Bushies were hiding out under their beds,
while visions of frog marches danced in their heads.
And Husb in his clownsuit, and I in my crown,
were saying “Let’s hope that whole gang’s going down.”

When from our TV there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my throne to see what was the matter.
Away to the sofa I flew like a flash,
tore open the popcorn, kicked over the trash.

The light from the screen cast a sinister glare
That gave a green lustre to Tim Russert’s hair.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a handsome young man with the press corps drawn near.

With a crisp way of speaking, all wisdom and wits,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Fitz.
More rapid than eagles, the talking heads came,
and we clicked all the channels and called them by name:

"Now Timmy! Now Jansing!
Now Tucker and Tweeter!
On, Scarborough, Hannity!
(Fox – even sweeter!)
On the top of the Hill!
At the top of the hour!
Now spin away! Spin away!
(Wolf needs a shower!)"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, spin to the sky
so up to soprano their shrill voices rose,
as they stuttered the news that was curling their toes.

And then, in a twinkling, Husb hollered a cheer
elated by words that we’d long longed to hear.
We danced and we shouted, amazed and excited,
Finally KKK Rove was indicted!!

He was dressed all in orange, in long-deserved style
with wrists bound in handcuffs, which made us both smile.
A bundle of charges hung over his head
and he looked like a man who would rather be dead.

His eyes--how they watered! His dimples, no more!
His pink cheeks were ashen, the fat little whore!
His droll little mouth was drawn down in a pout,
And we hoped he’d start singing and rat George Bush out.
He offered “no comment,” his ass-cheeks were gripped --
For once Mr. Scriptwriter hadn’t a script.

He had a red nose and a fat ugly belly,
that shook when he sobbed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was pitiful, truly, a sad orange elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
The squint of his eye and the bend of his head
soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.

He went to the squad car, relieved from his work,
and started to enter, then turned with a jerk.
And sticking his finger inside of his nose,
he did a “George Bush,” in perfect repose.

He ducked in the car, and Fitz closed his speech,
And away they all flew while a crowd cheered, “Impeach!”
But I heard Fitz exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Fitzmas to all -- and fight the good fight!"