Twas' The Night Before Fitzmas

(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore):

'Twas the night before Fitzmas,
And all through the (White) House,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even the mouse.

The target letters were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Pardon soon would be there.

The leakers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of frogmarches danced in their heads.

And Laura in her kerchief, and I with my mead,
Had just settled down to learn how to read.

When from the Rose Garden there arose such a clatter,
I hid under the bed and asked Rove what was the matter.

Away to the window, Karl manned his station,
While hiding was I in an undisclosed location.

The moonlight upon my Brain's newly-humble face
Gave a glint of desperation all over the place.

When what to his devious eyes should appear,
But a prosecutorial sleigh, and 12 grand jurists coming near!

And the middle-aged driver, subpeonae in his mitts,
I knew in a moment it must be ol' Fitz.

More rapid than eagles his grand jury came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called us by name:

"Now Hannah, now, Matalin! now Wilkinson, Libby!
On, Hughes, Rice and Rove! on, Cheney and Hadley!

You can't escape now, can't go over the wall!
Now to the jail, to the jail, to the jail all!"

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me a feeling of nothing but dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Filled the stockings with indictments; then turned with a jerk,

And finding me cowering under the bed,
He pulled at my arms 'til I poked out my head.

And laying his finger aside of my nose,
He gave me a nod, and I suddenly froze.

He sprang to his bag of once-brimming indictments,
And pulled one out for me, with some growing excitement.

And I heard him exclaim, ere I passed out of sight,
"Happy Fitzmas to all, and George Bush? Well, good-night!"