A VISIT FROM ST. VLADIMIR
By M. Burda and I. Collier
‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the swamp,
Not a creature was tweeting not even Don Trump.
Electoral votes had been cast with due care,
While nerves of the Democrats lay brut’ly bare;
Trump voters were nestled all snug in their beds;
While “Great America” visions danced in their heads;
And Merkel in her ‘kerchief and Xi in his cap,
Had just settled themselves for a long winter’s nap,
When there on my TV, the cable it glowed,
I grabbed my remote to catch what it show’d,
So punching the channels, I put on my glasses,
Turned up the volume, to hear braying of asses.
The men on the screen seemed so sure of themselves,
As they huff’d and they bluff’d to obsequious elves.
Then entering screen left, surrounded by flunkies,
This bare-chested guy and his eight little donkeys.
A spry 60-some driver, so buff was this lad,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Vlad.
More rapid than eagles his trollers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:
“On Dmitry! On Pyotr! On Andrei and Maxim,
“On Ruslan! On Slava! On Vadik and Vadim;
“To the bottom of the screen! To the top of the log!
“Let the truth be damned with each tweet, post and blog!”
Terabytes of emails from servers they hacked
Wikileaked for the Journos to make an impact.
So into the newsrooms those missives they flew
With the blessing of spooks —and St. Vladimir too—
In a twinkling, I read in the Washington Post
Debbie Wasserman Schultz had been turned into toast.
As I scrolled down for more, seeking truth like a hound,
Down the chimney St. Vladimir came with a bound:
He was dress’d all in khakis, except for his chest,
With assault rifle ready and stuffed ammo vest;
A bundle of flash drives were strung round his neck,
And clear to me now, this dude was high-tech:
His hairline, receding! His Botox renewed;
With Hammer & Sickle his rump was tatoo’d.
Thin lips and wide-stance this man among men,
Clean-shaven with big hands, beckons me to the den;
He fires off a round, just to get my attention,
Then tells me to kneel and show some affection.
His Dad-Bod to die for, a national erection,
Testost’rone o’rflowing, so goes our election…
His eyes how they twinkled! His attitude: so haughty!
Hijacking democracy – how terribly naughty!
But what say our PE-OTUS, our Tweeter-In-Chief?
Would the prez-elect save us – or just give us grief?
A wink of Vlad’s eye and a twist of his head
Gave me to think now that we must have turned red.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Threw the US election in a grand Cossack twerk,
To his copter he sprung, and then gave a whistle,
He roared away like a Katyusha-launched missile.
And the Donald, he tweeted while combing his hair:
“Merry serfdom to all! That election was fair!”
Image Source: Boston Globe, May 7, 2016.