Are We There Yet?
‘Twas the night before Christmas in Bayou St. John
And not a creature was stirring, not egret or swan;
Not nutria, gator, or unclaimed canoe;
Not the Councilmembers or Mayor Landrieu
In the midst of whose loftiest dreams butted Head;
Not Letten or masked right-hand Mann who was read
Her rights, or a stone’s throw from these fallen fellas
Ray Nagin who’d taken for granite Fradella;
Not the exiled head coach of the Saints (this year’s Martyrs)
Or the newly hatched Pelican nest of young starters;
Not the greatly diminished Times-Picayune staff
Now that news fit to print had been whittled in half.
All slept without cares in the Town Care Ignored
As the Christmas Eve stars twinkled down on our shore.
Then, Ma on her mini-Pad, I on the maxi-,
Log off for a long winter’s nap, when a taxi
With TAX in bold letters across the marquee
Careens ‘round the cliff ere it grazes a tree.
“Cut the wheel to the right,” yells their ruddy-faced leader.
“Make the rich ones pitch in,” cries a voice by the meter.
“Do ya wanna get fiscal?” one asks near the rear
But though this body talks, clearly no body hears.
When a school bus and ambulance try to get past,
A long Cadillac coupe that is driving too fast
Heads them off and in passing emits a sad “woof”
Which we trace to a kennel strapped onto the roof.
But the instant Mitt stalls, Jindal speeds towards the Hill,
His taillights reflecting a trail of road kill.
Then a model-T party proclaims a girl’s power
To send sperm a-packing if she is deflowered
Or welcome the gift that will spring from her loins—
But their karma backfires on these backward old boys.
Though a small fender-bender dents Hillary’s beam
It’s a bump in the journey to twenty-sixteen
And the Stateswoman seems not the least bit nonplussed
That McCain, in a road-rage, throws Rice ‘neath a bus.
He is straddling a fence that won’t stop immigration.
All around, unknown forces are driving inflation.
Then abreast of this pile-up on Bayou St. John
Comes a tour bus, a Gray-line with fifty shades drawn,
And Petraeus, resigned to this mess he’s All In
Next to Broadwell, not Brody, who’s texting the twin.
Mile High Manning, en route from his new Denver home,
Deconstructs “He who lay with a man shall be stoned.”
In a ditch sits Lance Armstrong with flats he can’t fix.
The poor Dutchess of Cambridge is feeling carsick.
Honey Boo Boo chomps down on some more pixie stix.
And Goodell toots his horn as Drew throws a pick-six.
If the Mayans are right, they have passed the last ramp
Thanks to charting their course using Apple’s new map
Which has led to this cliff, where they bicker and preen.
“Can we make it,” I groan, “to two thousand thirteen?”
“Yes, We Can!” comes a voice,” Yes, We Can fix this business
If we reach across consoles and Keep Chris in Christmas!
—Both the Christies and Kringles,” Obama explains.
“For we’re in the same sleigh!” and he retakes the reins.
Then he turns on the blinker to take a new route
Bringing all who will come, and together they shout:
“Away, Isaac and Sandy! Up, up, levee systems!
Away, away, partisans! Up, those who listen!
Up, marriage for everyone, not just for some!
And, for God’s sake—away! Away, deadly guns!”
Then a sign from the heavens appears o’er our shore:
Charlton Heston, on high, gives the nod to Mike Moore.
And we know we’ll be fine if the course that we chart
Leaves nobody behind and stays true to the heart.
~Happy Holidays from Stephany!
© S. Lyman
New Orleans, 23 December 2012