A Visit from Saint Dick, by R.K. Muse*

The following poem was discovered on the make-shift stable walls of the "Nativity Scene" displayed on the lawn of Witsend's Mayor, Donald Lehman:

A Visit from Saint Dick

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the camp,
Not a conscience was stirring, not even a scamp.
The golden parachutes were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that the NSA is still unaware.

The children were nestled all snug in feather beds
While visions of green Bens danced in their heads.
And Laura in her pajamas, and I in my blinders,
Had just settled our brains for another year of never-minders.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I stumbled with a flash,
Threw up the shutters and tore down the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen cash flow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my blindfolded eyes should appear,
But Air Force One, and eight yes-men of yesteryear.

When a little old pilot, so stoic and slick,
I knew in a moment it must be ol’ Saint Dick.
More stealth than bombers his courses they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dobson! Now, Delay! Now, Frisk and Rumie!
On Scalia! On Roberts! On, on Rove and Condie!
To the top of the food chain! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all.”

As empty promises after the wild hurricane still fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, it’s time to say bye-bye.
So up to the rooftop of my inland mansion the coursers they flew,
With Air Force One full of good political cheer, and ol’ Saint Dick too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard a crash through the roof;
The prancing and pawing of each grubby little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down through the attic floor Saint Dick fell with a thunderous sound.

He was dressed all in gold, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with sin and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had strapped on his back,
And he looked like a pirate, just opening his booty pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
Prepared to unleash an arrow dipped in golden glow.

The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly corporate elf,
And I chuckled when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the chutes, then turned with a jerk.
And flipping his middle finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up though the floorboards he rose!

He lumbered to Air Force One, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he flew out of sight,
“No worries, Lil’ George, what we did this year was right!”
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*R.K. Muse is Witsend's first and only (de facto) Poet Laureate, since no other poet has stepped forward to make a claim on the literary title. Although no verification of R.K. Muse's existence has been verified through the Bureaucratic Regime, he has left a trail of poems in his mysterious wake. The poems have appeared all over Witsend, usually scribed in what appears to be a red, water-soluble paint. The CSI of Witsend has tested the paint, and their results contend the red dye is a mixture of animals' blood, which helps support the popular theory among Witsendians that his initials stand for "Road Kill" and his muse is inspired by the unsuspecting victims whose souls he releases during the night.