“The Night Before Fitzmas” (Or… “A Visit from Saint Fitz”)

Adapted by InsightAnaltytical-GRL from the poem by Clement C. Moore

…on the occasion of the arrest of Rod Blagojevich and John Harris …and in “HOPE” of  what may transpire in the future…

***

‘Twas the night before Fitzmas, when

all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a

mouse;

The stockings of PUMAs hung by the chimney

with care,

In hopes that St. Fitz would soon safely be

there;

The PUMAs were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of indictments danced in

their heads;

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains 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 arrest warrant, and many  politicians

in fear,

With a little old driver, holding a sackful of

writs

I knew in a moment it must be St. Fitz.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they

came,

And he whistled, and shouted and called

them by name:

“Now, OPRAH! now, JESSE! now, DONNA and WRIGHT

On, HOPEY! on, GROPEY*, on Rahm and  even Teddy IN SIGHT!

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 coursers they

flew,

With a sleigh full of warrants, and dear old Fitz, too.

And then, in a twinkling I heard on the

roof

The prancing and pawing of each little desperate

hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning

Around,

Down the chimney St. Fitz came with

a bound.

***

He spoke not a word, but went straight to

his work,

And filled PUMA hearts, then turned

with a jerk

Then laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a

whistle

And away they all flew like the down of a

thistle.

He was off to bring a sentence to Rezko in

his cell

And for Rod, Harris, Daley and Obama,

who  now can tell?

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out

of sight

“Happy Fitzmas to all, and to all a good-

night….”

***

*Jon Favreau, Obama speechwriter and resident groper.

Clement C. Moore–biography of a caring man…