A Visit from St. Elon

Trump's Night Before Christmas by GOP Jesus

Donald Trump receives a late-night visitor on Christmas Eve.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the club
Not a creature was stirring, not even a chud;
The cashbox was laid by the bedside with care,
In hopes that St. Elon soon would be there;

The servants were chained up all snug in their beds;
While visions of freedom danced in their heads;
And Mel in her nightie and I in red cap,
Had long ago split for a long winter's nap,
When out on the drive there arose such a clatter,
I hobbled from bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window, I spilled all my trash,
Pressed down the gold button to raise up the sash.
The moon on the breasts of the hookers down low,
Gave a lustre of midday to Junior's white snow,
When what to my cataract eyes did appear,
But a black Model S and eight guards in the rear,
With a creepy high rider and a teensy small bong,
I knew in a moment it must be Elon.

His watchmen fell out, they looked all the same,
And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name:
"Now Covie! now Rona! now Hunter! now Fixin!
On, Magat! on, Faggot! on, Bezos and Vixen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the doorstep the guardsmen they flew
With a case full of cash, and St. Elon Musk too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the foyer,
The whiny high voice of my current employer.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Up the stairway St. Elon came with a bound.
He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were not tarnished with ashes nor soot;
A bundle of drugs he had flung on his back,
And it looked to be ketamine or maybe 'twas crack.

His eyes—how they darted! his fever, so scary!
His cheeks were all puffy, his nose like a cherry!
His smug little mouth was drawn up in a smirk,
And the gleam in his eye was as dark as his work;

The stump of a joint he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a pasty white face and a bouncy round belly
That shook when he cackled, like his ego, so jelly.

He was boastful and vain, a right haughty tech elf,
And I stared when I saw him, asserting myself;
A squint of his eye and a nod of his head,
Soon gave me to know the nation would dread;

He tossed me a check, we went straight to our grift,
And filled all our coffers; then turned with a shift,
And placing his finger, just under his nose,
And snorting a line, down the stairway he goes; 
He weaved to his Tesla, to his drones gave a leer,
And away they all zoomed, like a rocket's career.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he vanished from sight—
"Merry Christmas to us, and to hell with their rights!"

—Copyright 2024, All rights reserved

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