Too late

Meant to post this day before yesterday: still, with the grand jury term extended, it may well do in future.

The Night Before Fitzmas

Twas the night before Fitzmas, when all through the house
Came a faint pitter-patter, as if from a mouse,
From the hearts of conservatives lying in bed,
Unindicted conspirators shaking with dread.
The children were nestled all snug in their bed,
While visions of lame ducks danced in their heads,
And mamma with her Post, and I with a coke,
Had just settled down to watch Hannity choke...
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the 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 lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and some tiny reindeer,
With a fat slimy driver, as in sight he hove,
I knew in a moment it must be Karl Rove.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Counsel! now, Priv'lege! now Fifth A and Miers!
On, Ollie! on Gitmo! on, Torture-with-Pliers!
To the top of the Hill! to the top of the Mall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As evacuees that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with Mike Brown, curse him to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of papers, and Karl's fat ass too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard making moves
The prancing and pawing of Karl's little hooves.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the man himself came with a bound.
He was dressed to the nines, from his head to his foot,
But his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of files he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a smoker just craving a pack.
His eyes -- they were bloodshot -- his dimples how pallid!
His cheeks hung in jowls, his chest it hung flaccid!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And a six-day-old stubble shone white as the snow.
The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
And the ink it had splattered his face like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he sobbed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right horrid small gnome,
But I laughed when I saw him trespass in my home.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And shredded the papers; then turned (what a jerk!),
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his teams gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I yelled at him, ere he fled out of sight,
"Merry Fitzmas to all, and to all a good-night!"