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Superkommissar Maksim
12/18/2011, 6:40 pm


Twas an Occupy Christmas, when all through Zuccotti
Not a creature was stirring, not even the naughty.
Their demands were all sorted and stacked with care,
In hopes that Obama Claus soon would be there.

The Progs lay smug in their makeshift beds,
While hopes of entitlements danced in their heads.
Adorned by those cool proletarian caps,
Most had to sleep near where Comrades had crapped.

When somewhere nearby there arose such a clatter,
They sprang to the street to see what was the matter.
And straight to the barricade bound'ries they dashed,
In hopes their dealer had brought some more hash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the filth below.
Then what to their wandering eyes grew near,
A red-suited man in a limo appeared.

He was pulled by eight donkeys so stubborn and slow,
They knew twas Obama Claus promising dough.
'Cross Broad Street to Wall St. while braying they came,
Spurred-on by Obama Claus calling their names!


"On, Reid, on, Pelosi, on Fannie and Fred,"
"On, Biden, on Holder, on Geitner," he said.
"On, Barney, once more to the street known as Wall,
Or rejoin the asses I keep in the stall."

Since Globalized Warming makes hurricanes fly,
Just carbonless footprints they left in the sky.
As bounding they did over Wall Street they flew,
The limousine with cash and Obama Claus too.

And then, in a twinkling, they saw and approved,
The prancing and pawing once deemed so uncouth.
On stopping, Obama Claus then turned around,
And out of the limo he hopped with a bound.

Dressed all in red from his head to his foot,
With hammer and sickle he then undertook.
To break into homes of the One-Percent hacks,
To then redistribute their stuff to his pack.

His eyes how they twinkled! His smile was so merry!
So cheeky his visage, so quickly he hurried.
His hair changed by worries of needing more votes,
From vibrantly dark to the whiteness of snow.

His favorite cigarette clenched in his teeth,
Sent smoke he'd exhaled 'round his head like a wreath.
The broad smile he shows belies fire in his belly,
For class-warfare slogans for chanting and yelling.

Not chubby or plump and thus pleased with himself,
To work he proceeded with help from his elves.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Made clear Occupiers had nothing to dread.

He spoke the word "fair" in describing his work,
In taking the stocks from the one-percent jerks.
Then laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, over Wall Street he rose.

He sprang to his rig, to his team gave a whistle,
And over Wall launching goodies like missles.
They heard him exclaim as he flew out of sight,
"My redistribution makes everything right!"