With apologies to Clement Moore, who wrote the classic poem “Twas the Night Before Christmas” on December 24, 1822, I present to you: ” ‘Twas the Brandon Before Christmas”

‘Twas the Brandon Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my place,
Everyone was upset at Joe Biden’s disgrace.

Our shotguns were hung on the mantle with care,
In case the porch had an intruder out there.

The children were restless, turning in their beds,
While nightmares of face masks danced in their heads.

And my Wife in her bathrobe, wool socks on her feet,
Was upset at the ever-rising cost of our heat.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I though it was “mostly peaceful” Black Lives Matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains, and threw up the sash.
The moon shining down on three feet of snow
Illuminated the “Climate Change“, don’t you know.

When, what to my suspicious eyes should appear,
But a tall, confused man, with a Doctor quite near.

Such a frail old man, mumbling with abandon,
I knew in a moment it had to be Brandon.

More rapid than electrons his failures they came,
And he coughed, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Vaccinations! Immigration! Taxation!”, said Joe,
“Stuff Americans are much too stupid to know.”
“Stop all fossil fuels! Stop building the wall!
“And tax away, spend away, bankrupt us all!”

As debris before the wild hurricanes fly,
When he meets with an obstacle, “Socialism!” he’ll cry;
So up to the front door the duo did walk,
With Executive Orders – and Liberal talk.

And then in an instant, I heard at the door
The insincere laughing of his Vice President boor.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Thru the door Brandon came, his balance unsound.

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were quite wrinkled, he didn’t look neat.

A bevy of handlers followed, “Fact Checkers” in tow,
In case he misspoke, ‘cuz that’s just like ‘ol Joe!

His eyes – how vacant! His dimples not there,
His cheeks were like roses, and white was his hair.
His droll little mouth was drawn up for a kiss,
To give a young boy or perhaps cute little miss.

His hands he clenched in tight little fists,
With forearms horizontal, as if he were pissed.
He had a long face, and was thin as a rail,
“And those Trump supporters”, he laughed, “should all be in jail!”

He was thin and gaunt, and full of himself,
And I cursed when I saw him in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know he was almost brain dead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And emptied our wallets; then turned with a jerk,
And approaching my sleeping young daughter Rose,
Bent down, sniffed her hair, and kissed her small nose.

He shuffled to his limo, to his team gave a shout,
Then away they all went, without any doubt.

And I heard him exclaim, with a confident breath -
“Here’s to a winter of severe illness and death!”

Thanks for Reading!