I’ll be on my Homepage for Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas in Faubourg-St. John
And not a creature was stirring, at home or beyond.
The Charter school children lay snug in their beds
Their dreams of advancing through State Higher Ed
Deferred by their governor, the Oxford Rhodes Scholar
Who’d slashed education by millions of dollars
While stuffing his coffers for loftier aims
Such as Vice—or President—next to his name.
Down for the count after holiday parties
Were UNO’s Chancellor, dismissed by Lombardi;
The new mayor Mitch, who had balanced the budget
That Nagin bequeathed (though he’d hopelessly fudged it)
Confronting a garbage and millage increase
Along with fouled systems, from pumps to police;
Fishermen; rig workers; cappers of leaks;
Clerks counting lost records rather than sheep;
And Who Dats awaiting Round Two with Atlanta
—All of them dreamt of the coming of Santa.
After bestowing a kiss on the missus
(Relieved the repeal passed—unless they enlist us!)
I draw back the covers and climb into bed
With visions of oil plumes awash in my head.
Then, lo, from outside the front gate comes a voice:
“Don’t mess with my junk!” it says, “Hands off the toys!”
I throw back the shutters, and—hark! It’s Kris Kringle
His jacket disheveled, his pants badly wrinkled,
His boots in his hand, by his stockings his list.
“Santa,” I gasp. “Can it be you’ve been frisked?”
With a tour group of Facebook friends, Kris and his team
Are waiting in line beside scanning machines
Where TSA staffers will pat down their clothes
And a beam brighter even than Rudolph’s red nose
Will x-ray the contents of each one’s belongings
As well as their innermost secrets and longings.
The first are the reindeer, their sleigh-bells and antlers
Held high as they trot two-by-two through the scanners.
Then VIP passengers step through the line,
So I read what the magnetic frequencies find:
To not have two left feet is Bristol’s big dream
While Sarah’s is winning—then quitting—as Queen;
For Bullock, it’s husbands who do have your back;
For Ruler Kim Jong, it’s launching attacks.
Assange hopes his Wiki-leaks won’t wither up;
From the pit of his ticker, Vick pines for a pup.
His pants on the ground, a beaten-down Favre
Envisions a photograph greatly enlarged.
There are Chilean miners who dream of Signoras,
Avatar creatures that yearn for Pandora,
Bugs with a yen that no mattress can snuff,
And girls who aspire to get tattoos of Puff.
The meat-stole on Gaga, the booze Lindsey smuggles,
The whereto of Lost—give the scanners some trouble,
And Bush’s Decision Points tracing his thoughts
Through two grueling terms illuminates naught.
The passions run high around mosques and Don’t Tell,
The barrels of oil from the Deepwater well,
The Health Care Proposal, tax cuts for the rich,
The Tea Party’s wisdom in backing a witch,
The first lady’s right to keep kids in kids’ sizes,
Her husband’s compulsion to make compromises.
As the scanners infiltrate the wall posts and apps,
The statuses, boxes and albums— I ask,
Does Facebooking flights on a Christmas Eve night
Delete all the passengers’ privacy rights?
Where does default lie? Where will it end?
Then Bette Midler texts back: U got 2 hav frnds!
“The feeling,” sings Kringle, “It’s ho ho—so strong!”
With this holiday sentiment, out steps Kim Jong:
“I’m changing my Profile—I’ll work for World Peace!”
The Quarterbacks vow that they’ll be like Drew Brees.
The rich will save schools with their hefty tax breaks;
The Glee cast, with Gaga, will sing away hate;
The bed bugs announce, to a great round of cheers,
They’ll be dining in Farmville, beginning next year.
Ere I pull back the louvers to rejoin the missus,
Exhausted from all of this networking business,
I see Santa pause while the downloads install,
And, lifting his I-pad, write this on his wall:
“Keep your status in check and don’t unfriend your friends,
You can’t have enough!” And, with that, he hits SEND.
© S. Lyman New Orleans 25 December 2010
