The Night Before Biden's Last Christmas

Merry Christmas From The W.C. Dispatch

The Night Before Bidenmas

Tuesday, December 24, 2024: By, Walter Curt

'Twas the night before Biden's final Christmas, when all through the land, Not a border was closing, not even a strand; The pardons were hung in the White House with care, In hopes that St. Joe would commute them there.

The nation was nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of empty borders danced in their heads; And Jill in her 'kerchief, and Joe in his cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed 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 on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny scandals so dear,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick—Biden, that is! More rapid than eagles his controversies came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Pardons! Now, Border! Now, Hunter and Clemency! On, Inflation! On, Scandal! On, Corruption and Secrecy! 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 scandals they flew, With the sleigh full of misdeeds, and St. Joe too.

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

He was dressed all in blue, like a president in suit, But his garments were stained, looking worn and minute; A bundle of pardons he had flung on his back, He resembled more a lost soul, than a peddler with his pack.

His eyes—how they wandered! His gaze quite unsteady! His cheeks were ashen grey, his nose very reddy! His mouth hung open slack, not drawn up in a bow, And the beard on his chin was as sparse as the snow;

The stump of a pipe, Hunter's crackpipe indeed, In his mouth it did rest, with no smoke to heed; He had a gaunt face, not plump or round, No laugh or belly shake, no jolly sound.

He was frail and confused, not a jolly old elf, I watched him in silence, in spite of myself; A vacant stare from his eyes, a slow shake of his head, It left me to ponder, with a sense of dread;

He spoke not a word, for he'd been dead for years, Yet still, he went straight to his work, with no cheers, And laying his finger aside of his nose, With a silent nod, up the chimney he rose;

He stumbled to his sleigh, to his team gave no whistle, And away they all flew, like a ghost in a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, as he faded from sight, "Merry Bidenmas to all, and Fuck You! Good-night!"