I know; it isn't Christmas, but it is an election year, so I thought it would be worthwhile not to forget the fathomless imbecility of our last Presidential election in the United States:
[be forewarned: not for the faint of heart of Democratic persuasion; remember, this is humor!]
An admittedly highly partisan take-off on the lunacy of the 2000 presidential election, with a doubly Christmassy twist . . .
'Twas the month after election, when all through Florida land,
Not a single vote was certain, from pencil, stylus, or hand.
The chads were all hung on the ballots by a hair,
In hopes that Democratic canvassing boards soon would be there.
Palm Beach ladies wrestled with senility, all smug in their views,
With visions of conspiracy; "Buchanan we didn't choose!"
Some counties had butterfly ballots, or pregnant dimples "clear,"
And liberals wracked their brains for a long bleeding-heart's smear.
When on the White House lawn there arose such a stink,
They sprang from voting booths to loathe conservative rat finks.
Away to the media crusading Algore flew like a flash,
And tore open honesty and truth, evil Republicans to bash.
The moon and the sky, like Chicken Little, were caving in,
Giving a lustre of "plausibility" to cynical Democrat spin.
When what to our disbelieving eyes should appear,
But a grown-up whining crybaby, as certification drew near.
With a little old Supreme Court, honorable, liberal, and slick,
To legislate on a whim: this kangaroo court so quick.
More rapid than eagles, Algore's counselors came,
And he whistled through fake smiles and called them by name:
Now Daschle! now Daley! now St. Christopher! now silly Boies!
On, Lieberman! on, Jennings; I'd Rather have Brokaw media ploys!
To the brink of shamelessness! To the very pinnacle of folly!
Now Daschle and Gephardt: dash away objectivity & fairness, by golly!
As the Constitution before the wild propaganda campaign died,
Faced with the obstacle of rule of law, they circumvented and lied.
So to thrice-counted punch cards salivating canvassers they flew,
With bags full of dirty tricks and chads; arrogant and self-righteous too.
And then, in a twinkling, Algore heard in his head,
The prying and gnawing of conscience's dread.
While practicing Reaganisms, in the mirror saw he with squinting eyes,
Three luminous Ghosts of Close Elections Past, in but slight disguise.
They were covered in greasy ballots and dollars, from head to foot,
And their reputations were all tarnished with compromise and soot.
Like a bundle of risky schemes, Algore -- dazed -- fell flat on his back.
He looked like the Gipper, but dumber, less wrinkly; as if high on crack.
Richard Nixon's eyes: how they twinkled! his jowls: how merry!
His fingers made the "victory" sign (McGovern he buried).
His droll little mouth said: "Let me make this perfectly clear.
I put country above ambition, in '60 and '74: what a year!"
Old Rutherford Hayes' beard was long and white as fleece.
A stump speech from long ago he held tight in his teeth.
The smoke-filled rooms encircled his head like a scarf:
"When they called me 'Your Fraudulency,' it made me wanna barf!"
Then handsome JFK told Algore: "I won because of debates on telly,
But old man Daley's Chicago shenanigans made victory kinda smelly.
Even Tricky Dick gracefully, manfully conceded, like a jolly old elf."
With a wink he warned: "So should you, in spite of your devious self."
Algore suddenly arose, rubbing his eyes and twisting his head,
Soon giving hostage America to know it had nothing to dread.
He spoke no more lies and half-truths, but went straight to work,
Selling all his big oil stock(ings); no longer the big jerk.
And pointing his finger at himself instead of patient W. Bush,
He resumed his former pro-life views, and racial strife wouldn't push.
He sprang to the congress; to fellow Democrats giving a call,
And urged upon them statesmanship; ugly bickering to stall.
And we heard him exclaim, as he conceded by the book,
Life means far more than stealing elections by hook or crook.
Jesus said: "the first shall be last, and the last shall be first."
So for the good of the country, my ruthless ambition I will burst.
I've been a chameleon, exaggerated, and torn groups apart;
Now it's time to stop demagoguing; I'll examine my own heart.
And all marvelled at Algore's classy cry, ere he finally faded out of TV sight:
Happy Christmas to all, and to Dubya, you put up a good fight!
Written on 9 December 2000, before the election was decided.