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"'Twas the Night Before Bailout"--a Christmas gift poem for DU
T'was The Night Before Bailout
T'was the night before Bailout, when all through the land the rich men like beggars had stuck out their hands. The poor had been robbed of their medical care in hopes that the poor would soon not be there-- and their jobs and their homes, and their savings, too, and their pensions--whatever they had to make do-- the rich men plundered all, they couldn't have been badder, and then sprang from their corporate jets to finish the matter.
Away to our leaders they flew like a flash Tore into the White House and demanded more cash. At the end of the hideous Bushwhack regime Not a penny was left for the rich men to glean, when, what to their wondering eyes should appear, but Saint Bushwhack himself with his infamous leer, that little 'ol cowpoke, so ugly and slick, they knew in a moment he'd be their St. Nick.
Now, Nancy! now, Henry! Now, Joe and Barack! On, Johnnie! on Sarah! on, Jabber 'n' Wock! To the Federal Reserve and onto Fort Knox! It's a Crisis! It's a crisis! Gotta hold us some talks!"
As wild sharks in a frenzy to crisis do rush when they meet with a president with brains like mush So up to the White House the fascists they flew With a sleigh full of looting proposals to do.
And then, in a twinkling, the roof did cave in on the destitute bankers, those poor little men. As they put out their hands and opened their pockets showers of gold rained down on them like rockets.
He was dressed in gold spangles, with gold spurs on his boots He looked kind of like Elvis, in one of those sequined cowboy suits, The golden lasso he had flung overhead had roped him a calf that made of gold from the Fed.
His eyes--how they glittered! his nose like a cherry! The truth of it is that he looked like a fairy! His droll little mouth was poked out like a chimp's And his effort to swagger resembled a pimp's.
The pipe that he smoked had a strange silver shine And the snow that shook off it weren't the real snowy kind. He had a small mean face and he clanked when he walked from the ghosts who were trailing him from the land of Iraq.
He was angry yet glitzy-- a sort of rightwing mirage-- And they cringed at the vehicle he drove out of the garage. The twitch in his eye and the twist of his head soon gave them to know that St. Bush wuddint dead.
He jibbered and jabbered, and went straight to his work and filled the gold stockings of all of these jerks. and laying a finger aside of his nose and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. And away it all flew like a Patriot missile-- Generations of solvency, gone in a whistle. But they heard him exclaim, as he drove the gold caddy "Heh-heh-heh, Amurka! Who's your Daddy?"
Peace Patriot 12/24/08 (Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
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