'Twas the Night Before Cliffmas

'Twas the night before Cliffmas, when all through the House
Not a creature was stirring, not even a louse.
The committees, hamstrung by the dimwits' despair,
In hope that St. Norquist wouldn't be there.

Cantor and Price nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Speakership danced in their heads.
Obama with Blackberry, and Reid with his trap
Had just settled their brains for this partisan crap.

When out in the markets there arose such a clatter,
Traders sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the terminal those trades like a flash,
Tore open the pensions and burned up our cash.

Lobbyists on the breast of the Washington ho
Gave the lusty noon quickie to citizens below.
When, what to their wandering eyes should appear,
But a sleigh of hand, and eight shifty financiers.

With a little old driver, so frothy and sick
I knew in a moment it must be that prick.
More rapid than vultures his backers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

Now Adelson! Now Scaife! Now Perry! Now Koch!
Now Perenchio! Now Rowling! Now Griffin! Now Loeb!
To the top of the donors! With unmitigated gall!
Now go to hell! Go to hell! Go to hell all!

As vomit flows before the pissed drunk heaves dry,
When they meet with an obstacle, they mount an ad buy.
So up to the House top the donors they flew,
With the sleigh full of pledges, and St. Norquist too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on Fox news
The prancing and pawing of each of those spews.
As I threw up my lunch, and was turning around,
Down the Beltway St. Norquist came with much sound.

He was dressed all in fire, from his head to the sod
And his sickle all crusted by moderate blood.
A bundle of pledges he had flung on his back
And he looked like a dickhead, and spoke through his crack.

His eyes how they frowned! his donors how scary!
His cheeks were like Brillo, his body like (old) Drew Carey!
His mad little mouth was drawn with some words
And the spittle of his chin was as white as bird turds.

The stump of a dogma he held tight in his teeth
And the smoke it encircled policy like a wreath.
He had a mad face and a hatred of babies
And shook when he raged, like a raccoon with rabies.

He was chubby and plump, a right prickish old git
And I cried when I saw him, and my pants did I shit.
A twitch of his eye and a twist of some heads
Soon gave me to know all had much to dread.

He spoke tons of words--would his plan work?
And filled all the op-eds, and threw bombs like a jerk.
And laying his knives aside the country's throat
And giving a nod, on Sunday shows to gloat!

He sprang to his perch, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the screeching Nazgul.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Cliffmas to the poor, and to all, FUCK YOU, I'M RIGHT!"