(This beauty of a parody poem appeared in my email in-box today.
I had to share it... THANK YOU Elmo... wherever you are.)
The Night Before Occupy Christmas
By Elmo Machiore
(With apologies to the OTHER Moore—Clement Clarke)
Twas the night before Christmas and all through Zucotti
Not an Occupier was stirring—even in the Porta Potty.
The stockings were hung on the fences with care,
In hopes that St. Michael Moore soon would be there.
We Occupy kids snuggled up—sans our tents—
But visions of iPads still danced in our sense.
My girlfriend and I ate our free meal, then peed,
And then settled our brains with a few hits of weed.
When out on the corner there arose such a clamor,
I sprang from the ground to see why all the drammer.
An old rag on my head and no shoes on my feet,
I tore a mad dash out to Liberty Street.
The snowflakes and moonlight were totally awesome.
(I texted my friends: “Dude, I finally saw some!”)
When what to my bloodshot-red eyes should appear
But a big honkin’ limo, with eight Dems in the rear.
With its ballcap-clad driver as big as a store,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Moore.
More rapid than Twitter, out the Democrats came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Nancy! Now Harry! Now, Schumer and Sherman!
On, Sanders! On, Boxer! On, Baucus and Berman!
To the midst of the park For our great photo call!
Now tweet away! Tweet away! Tweet away all!”
With the speed of a monkey digesting a kiwi
Or of Anthony Weiner when sexting his wee-wee,
So into the park all the Democrats flew
With their big bags of toys, and St. Michael Moore, too.
And then in a twinkling I felt the earth quake
As if all of Zucotti had started to shake.
My unwashed head turned toward the source of the din:
Down the sidewalk St. Michael had just waddled in.
He was dressed like a bum, from his head to his feet,
The cunning disguise of the Limo Elite.
A bundle of iPads he’d flung on his back.
To us poor helpless souls he was carrying crack!
His eyes tried to twinkle with socialist zeal,
but his cheeks said it all—“I do not miss a meal.”
His mouth—when not running—wore the arrogant smirk
Of a man working hard to appear out of work.
The ball-cap, the tee-shirt said “I’m one of you!”
(Just ignore all those millions my movies accrue.)
He shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly—
But his 401-K was as big as his belly.
I started to doubt our dear Savior’s intent.
And I said to myself “HE’s the ninety-nine percent?!”
But St. Michael, inferring my disquietude,
Gave a wink of his eye that said “No, really, dude!”
Amid mumbling “George Bush,” he went straight to his bag
And filled all our stockings with great techno-swag.
Then slurping a Starbucks and looking quite spent,
to the warmth of his limo, St. Michael Moore went.
He started the engine in his big, bad-ass ride,
while Schumer and company all piled inside.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he started to flee,
“Merry Socialism to all—except of course, me!”
For the tradtionalists, we offer Perry Como's rendition of the real Christmas classic.