Word is that Democrats, progressives, Greens, moderates, and other rational, critical thinkers have been a little down lately. Time for a little levity, a change of pace, Holiday "cheer,"and perhaps, alternative memes.

I had a dream (sort of) . . .

'Twas the Nightmare Before Inauguration
Or Account of a Visit from St. Dubya

[The author acknowledges a certain debt to Major Henry Livingston, Jr. (1748-1828), for his poem with a similar title and rhyme scheme, previously believed to be by Clement Clarke Moore.]

'Twas the night before the Inaugural, when all through the House
Not a creature was stirring, not even a louse;
Moral values were hung by the chimney with care,
To fend off attacks, lest Dems should be there;

The bloggers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of vote counts danced in their heads;
And the Senate minority, finally at rest,
Had just settled down for winter's recess,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from our laptops to see what was the matter.
Away to the bathroom we flew in a flash,
Threw wide the door and threw up stale hash.

The moon on the hills* of the black, driven snow
Gave the illusion of fair election to objects below,
When, what did our horrified pundits soon guess,
But a miniature Bushog and a disfigured Congress!

With a little old driver, so lively and smug,
We knew in a moment it must be St. Shrub.
More rabid than wolves his neocons came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Condi! now, Albert! now, Rummy! and Goss!
On, Tony! Delay! Right, Cheney? Whoa, Hoss!
Out, Colin! Out, Specter! Rove—moderates to the wall!
Now, smash away! Smash away! Smash away all!"

As provisional ballots that before election winds fly,
When they meet with a challenger, are thrown to the sky,
So up to the House-top the hypocrites flew,
With their arms full of memos, and St. Dubya, too.

And then, in a twinkling, we heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each Cabinet hoof.
As we drew in our breath, and looked cautiously around,
Down the chimney St. Dubya came with a bound.

He was dressed all in branches, from his head to his boot,
And his hands were all dirty, stained with oil, blood, and loot;
A bundle of amendments he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his message how glum!
His ears strangely elfin; his brain stem was numb.
His droll little mouth was drawn up in smirks,
And the shape of his arms looked swollen with perks.

His words malapropos, his nose like a cherry.
He recoiled as he saw the face of John Kerry.
A fist he raised at that specter of reason,
“Death to your patriotism; it smacks of treason!”

The stump of outsourcing he held tight in his teeth,
And pollution encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad agenda and a little round belly,
That shook, when he cut dissent, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was arrogant and maladroit, a Right jolly old elf,
And we laughed when we watched him run into a shelf;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon let us know we had morning to dread;

He yelled, “Bring it on!” and went straight to his work,
Slowly filling the body bags; then turned, like a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the ladder he rose;

He sprang to his team and gave them a whistle,
And away they all flew like the smoke from a missile.
But we heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Inaugural to all and to all, a good fight!”

*Ashcroft edit for breast