‘Twas the night before Christmas, when out on the stump
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Trump;
The pundits were poring o’er laptops with care,
In hopes that enlightenment soon would be theirs;
The pollsters were nestled all snug in their beds;
While margins of error tapdanced in their heads;
And Susan with Chekhov, and I with Lee Child,
Had just settled down for a fun evening wild.
When out in the drive there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon shining down on the non-fallen snow
(Climate change is destroying our planet, you know),
Now dimly reveals where the darkness once fell,
A passel of pols in some Uber XLs,
With a perky young leader so lively—Bejeebus!
I knew in a moment he must be Chair Priebus.
More rapid than eagles the others all came,
As Reince whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now! Marco, now! Ted Cruz, now! Jeb Bush and Christie;
On! Kasich, on! Carson, on! Rand Paul and Carly;
To the top of the porch! to the end of the wall!
Now hurry in! hurry in! hurry in all!”
From far they had come and long distances rode.
They rushed through the door of our modest abode;
Into the fam’ly room candidates drew
With a bevy of donors, consultants, too.
And when, in a twinkling, I came down the stair,
The meeting had lately begun with a prayer.
As I stuck in my head, and was looking around,
Across the room came Chair Priebus with a bound.
“No media allowed! Strictly off the record!”
(But I left the door open; here’s what I observed).
A bundle of polls Reince had high on his back,
He looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how cute!
He called the meeting to order without dispute.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
But beneath it, his poor face was whiter than snow;
He feigned a broad smile behind grim gritted teeth,
But the tension encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a kind face and a little round belly
But tonight he looked like a very nervous Nelly.
He tried to be friendly, an earnest young man,
While telling himself, “Yes, we can, yes, we can”;
But a glimpse of his eye and the cast of his head
Soon gave me to know he was trembling with dread;
He spoke not a joke, but went straight to his work,
And briefed all on the plan; then turned with a jerk,
And grabbing his bag with a shake of his head,
And giving a nod, out the front door he fled;
He sprang to his car, gave his driver
a whistle,
Away they all fled like the down
of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he
drove out of sight—
“If we don’t beat the Donald, for us
it’s goodnight!“
(as recited to The Scrapbook by an elf bearing a mysterious resemblance to William Kristol)
