Roy Maynard: Early Returns

Twas the night before Christmas, as caucuses loomed,
No GOP pick meant ’08 seemed doomed.
Our delegates waited, committing to none,
In hopes that a new Ronald Reagan would run.

Republicans nestled, all snug in their beds,
While visions of candidates danced in their heads.
Hopefuls, appealing to middle and right,
Had just braced themselves for a primary fight.

When out in New Hampshire arose such a clatter,
I googled up Youtube to see what was the matter.
The amateur footage, with static and snow,
Gave the luster of grassroots to corporate dough.

When what to my wond’ring eyes did appear,
But a scandal-free candidate all could hold dear.
An unspoiled front-runner, lively and quick.
I knew in a flash I could vote for St. Nick.
More rapid than pollsters, opponents were tamed;
He whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Romney, now Thompson, now Huckabee, you!
And Ron Paul, and Rudy, and John McCain too!
To the top of the polls, to the top of the caucus!
When we get to Saint Paul, it’s gonna get raucus!

So I shut down my laptop, and turning around,
Down the chimney our candidate came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur! And leather! And wool!
From his hat to his boots, a capitalist tool!

Conservative policies, strength in Iraq.
Oh, he looked like the Gipper just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! Almost Clinton-esque!
Yet stately as Truman (and yes, we mean Bess).

Traditional views, tied up with a bow,
And his background was also as pure as the snow.
He had a sharp mind, cooperative spirit,
Bipartisanship (or at least something near it).

A wink of his eye, and a right-sounding word,
Soon gave me hope. I liked what I heard.
He polled not a soul, but went straight to his work,
He won all the prim’ries — but then showed his quirk.

His front-runner status went straight to his head,
As government handouts were piled in his sled.
He stuffed all the stockings with pork-barrel loot,
And my hopes were all dashed for that man in the suit.
And he heard me exclaim, as I realized his fib,
“I should have known that Santa’s a lib!”

With deep, deep apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, the original work’s author.

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