‘Twas the night before Christmas back in ’92,
the White House was busy, with so much to do
The missiles were packed for Iranian care,
in hopes that their drug payments soon would be there.

The traitors were nestled all snug in their jail
with visions of pardons – their prez would prevail.

Bahbah in her kerchief, and I, the lame duck,
had settled our plans for just passing the buck –
when, hearing again that old “there you go” mantra,
I sprang from my desk like a bloodthirsty Contra.

Away to the window and what should appear,
but a twenty-mule sled (like on TV’s frontier)
with a little old driver so cheap and so chipper
I knew in a moment it must be the Gipper.

The sleigh came down hard on the White House’s roof,
no need for a chimney, just S. D. I. …poof !
His face was like wax and his suit, cleaned and pressed,
his script was on freedom; he’s Hollywood’s best.

He told me my error: like him I should feign
forgetfulness, smile, to win any campaign.

He looked at the stockings and then he brought forth
for Weinberger, Poindexter, Oliver North
full pardons for treason; I heard him exclaim,
“Anti-Christ-mas to all – now there’s no one to blame!”

(hope someone saw that chart on the chart section of this website)

“You’ve all been bad boys… but the Missus likes em bad so here!”