Monday, November 01, 2004

Twas the night before voting

I just re-worked The Night Before Christmas. Let me know what you think!

WARNING: This is winger poetry. Made by a winger for wingers. Weiners read on at your own risk!

Twas the night before voting and all through the House,
Not a representative was stirring, not even Nancy Pelosi; (couldn't find a rime)
The ballots were held in the centers with care,
In hopes that no voter fraud would be found there;

The voters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of run-offs danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just turned on the news. What a large pile of crap,

On the White House lawn there arose such a clatter,
The marines jumped into action to see what was the matter.
Away to their posts they flew like a flash,
Turned on their sirens with lights that would flash.

The moon at their backs and wouldn't you know,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But Osama Bin-Laden, and eight terror bombadeers,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment I was going to be sick.
More rapid than camels his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dashle! now, Daniel! now, Boxer and Clinton!
On, Corzine! on Conrad! on, Durbin and Feinstein!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the van full of bombs, and Osama too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of McGreevy, the goof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Osama came with a bound.

He was dressed in fatigues, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes smelled a bit like some ass and a foot;
A bomb-belt of his he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a homeless guy strung out on crack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how sKerrey!
His cheeks were quite sunken, freind of Marion Barry?
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was grey and white like bad snow;

The stump of a hooka he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke that encircled his head really reaked;
He had a thin face and absolutely no belly,
He shook, when he coughed like a girl with R-Kelly

Bush, at work with a slump, took his gun from a shelf,
And he laughed when he saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

Bush spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled him with lead; that will deal with the jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, Osama Bin Laden was hosed;

He sprang to his door, to marines gave a whistle,
To their posts they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out the night,

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