By Tom Cardella
(co-written by Allan Hotlen)
’Twas the night before Christmas and inside the White House,
not a creature was stirring not even a mouse.
Outside it was awful, the weather was sleeting.
The President cared not; he was too busy tweeting.
With twelve diet Cokes lined up by his side.
And his favorite foods … all of it fried.
Melania was nestled all snug in her bed.
While visions of Michael Kors danced in her head.
The entire Trump family was spending the night.
Far out of Bob Mueller’s ever-threatening sight.
Ivanka had dozed off with nary a care.
For Jared, however, sleep was not there.
How can a man even think about dozing
With so many things he wasn’t disclosing?
Don Jr. dreamed about hunting big game.
Dishing dirt with the Russkies had been so lame.
So far Eric Trump had kept out of trouble.
But who knew when Mueller would burst the boy’s bubble?
Sara Huckabee Sanders scowled over coffee and toast.
And blamed her bad mood on the Washington Post.
And that Times reporter was so darned uncouth.
Accusing her of always shading the truth.
When out in the Rose Garden there arose such a clatter,
Trump dropped his McMuffin. What on earth is the matter?
As he ran to the window, thinking who could it be?
He kicked over a h-u-u-uge bucket of KFC.
Well no one was there, so he looked in the crapper.
And what did he see? He saw Mr. Jake Tapper.
The President ranted and raged in his den.
He swore and he screamed, “God, I hate CNN.”
“Fake news!” “Fake news” Everyone heard Trump shout.
The old building trembled ev’ry time he cried out.
“You liberals have no respect for our borders.
And stop trashing all my executive orders!
You say that my tax cut is just for the rich.
Rammed through by a chinless McConnell named Mitch.
You say I met Putin for the purpose of collusion.
That my visions of grandeur are just a delusion.
You don’t give me credit for achieving my goal.
Like single-handedly breathing new life into coal.
Restored “Merry Christmas” to its hallowed old place.
Gave those white supremacists a strong voice on race.
To for-profit firms, I gave government land.
And gave public schools the back of my hand.
Suddenly, from the distance, Trump heard a boomer.
Could it be Pelosi and that wimp, Chucky Schumer?
But no, it turned out, Trump had nothing to fear.
The sound came from Santa and all his reindeer.
The President was calm. And he seemed real aloof.
“Why the hell are those reindeer up there on my roof?”
As he turned and he carefully put his Twinkies down,
Through the chimney, came Santa with a rumbling sound.
He was dressed in pin stripes and he wore a red tie.
Could it be that St. Nick’s a Republican guy?
On the old man’s lapel was a small shiny flag.
In his weathered hands, he carried a bag.
Into the opened sack, Donald Trump peeks.
There are Hillary’s emails straight from Wikileaks!
Oh goody, they’ll finally get off my back.
Trump thought as he watched Santa open the sack.
We’ll lock her up. Put her tail behind bars.
Put her in a spaceship and send her to Mars.
Force liberals to admit I’m the greatest of all.
My hands are so big. My stature quite tall.
All my enemies are just sorehead losers.
The same goes for all of my female accusers.
The President smiles and poetically waxes.
“Soon, no one will care about seeing my taxes.
And Americans will realize I’m not so dim.
Just watch me destroy little rocket man, Kim.
My critics will see that I’m smart and I’m shrewd.
My ego’s in check and I’d never be lewd.
Wasn’t me on that bus with that Billy Bush.
Do I seem like a man who would grab any tush?
The leaders in Europe will all sing my praises.
So will corporate heads when they get their huge raises.
In the home of each liberal, let there be a pox.
Let every TV be forever on FOX.
Santa, I’ll soon be a God here on earth.
’Cause they’ll soon find in Kenya Obama’s record of birth.
On golf ranges everywhere, folks will yell “fore!”
And you’ll soon see my face up there on Mount Rushmore.
At Trump hotels, room rates will keep climbing higher.
And no one will say, “Donald Trump is a liar.”
Mexico’s Prez? Britain’s Theresa May?
Are gonna be left soon with nothing to say.
All through the Capitol building you’ll hear the cryin’
Comin’ from the office of House Speaker, Paul Ryan.
They’ll pass my tax cut and they’ll pass healthcare too.
Place Michael Moore on display at the zoo.
Trump snapped to his senses and looked up at Santa.
Who handed the President a bottle of MYLANTA.
“You’ll need this, I fear,” he said, matter-of-factly.
These papers are not what you’re thinkin’ exactly.
Trump’s stomach did rumble. His face showed alarm.
Could the spirit of Christmas morning be bringing him harm?
Santa suddenly had a big change of demeanor.
As he handed the President a bag full of subpoenas.
“Merry Christmas,” he called to the guests in the foyer.
Tell the President,” he’d better get a good lawyer.”
Somewhere in the land, far away from this drama,
A man is smiling. His name is Obama.