The day after Christmas there arose such a clatter

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore:

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the House

Not a legislator was stirring, not even to grouse;

The impeachment articles were delayed by the speaker with care,

But the Senate was ready in hopes that they would soon be there.

The jury was nestled back home in their states, with vulnerable senators all filled with dread;

While visions of witnesses danced in their heads;

With McConnell in Kentucky, and President Trump Florida bound,

The president had just settled in for a quick 18-hole round,

When out on the White House lawn there arose such a clatter,

Fox News sprang from the briefing room to see what was the matter.

Away to the window Ed Henry flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The camera’s lights lit the scene of what was happening below,

And gave the luster of a press conference to people in the know,

When what to his wondering eyes did appear,

But Adam Schiff, Robert Mueller and a team of prosecutors with nothing to fear,

Impeachment has happened, indictments galore,

He knew in that moment that there could be more.

More rapid than witnesses compelled by the courts they came,

And Schiff whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Pence! Now, Bolton! Now Pompeo and Perry!

On, McGahn! On, Parnas and Fruman! On, Rudy and Mulvaney!

To the secure basement of the Capitol! Nobody wants to take the fall!

Now talk away! Talk away! Talk away all!”

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the House floor the witnesses they flew

With pages of documents, texts and emails, too —

And then, in a twinkling, the president hit the roof

The prancing and pawing on Twitter with his tiny little hoofs.

As he pounded the phone, and called people names,

The president reminded the world of his fame.

He wore a red tie, from his neck to his toe,

And his skin was so orange it appeared to glow;

“When you’re a star, you can do it. You can do anything.”

Kiss them, grab them, act like a king.

His hair fluttered and blew around in the breeze,

But the insults and lies came with great ease.

Through the witch hunt, the hoax, he gritted his teeth,

And Pelosi, she circled in his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a big round belly

That shook when he ranted, like a bowl full of jelly.

His poll numbers were down, even Fox News would have to say,

And women voters were turning on him, more and more by the day;

The Iowa Caucus is close, and the election is near.

Finally, finally, we’ll have nothing to fear.

Be it Warren or Sanders, Booker or Pete,

Yang or Klobuchar, Uncle Joe or someone we’re still to meet.

The candidates have plans and are ready to work,

But most importantly of all they won’t be a jerk,

They’re ready and willing and practicing their prose,

With voters giving a nod, up the polls they have rose;

People are watching the news and seeing the ads,

They’re leery of the Russians and they’re tired of being had.

Fake news may exclaim the craziest slights,

But the screens flicker and dim, the links out of sight.

2019 is gone; 2020 is here —

Happy impeachment to all, and to all a good New Year!

David Farmer is a public affairs, political and media consultant in Portland, where he lives with his wife and two children. He was senior adviser to Democrat Mike Michaud’s 2014 campaign for governor.