A Visit from Saint Trumpless
presented at the 2015 HBLL Christmas Party

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Trump Towers
Not a profit had plummeted for several hours.
Stock options were stored in a very safe place
In the hopes that St. Trumpless would soon show his face.
The billionaires were nestled all snug in their offices,
While visions of recession tightened their esophaguses;
And Mama in her futon and I in my chair
Had just settled down to watch Stephen Colbert.

When such a noise clattered outside the skyscraper,
I sprang from my seat to see what was the caper.
Away to the window I flew with a roar,
But I didn’t open it, because it was on the 85th floor.

The moon glistening over the city of New York
Gave the luster of brownstone, or maybe pulled pork.
When what to my wondering eyes (did I witness this?):
A jet helicopter and six tiny apprentices.
With a little old passenger showing such an atttitude
I knew in a moment it was not St. Jude.
Stamped in fine gold on the chopper was modeled:
“Get out of my way, for I am the Donald!”
 More rapid than aspersions the helicopter came,
And he shouted and called his apprentices by name:
“Now Kelly, now Kendra, and now Omarosa!
On Brandy, On Randal, and on Ponderosa!
To the top of the Towers, You seem uninspired!
Now dash away, dash away, for you are all fired!

As dry words that before the primary debate fly,
When they meet with the media, mount to the sky,
So up top they flew to the helicopter pad,
Where Ivanka said to Trumpless,  “I think we’re home, Dad.”
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the penthouse
What sounded like a fox just entering the henhouse.
As I drew in my head, and was turning towards port,
Down the staircase St. Trumpless came with a snort.

He was dressed in a suit from his head to his wallet,
And his portfolio was not tarnished, but looking quite solid;
A bundle of bills he had stuffed in his pocket,
And he looked like a banker just making his deposit.
His eyes—how they darted!  His mouth went unchecked
While avoiding all words politically correct.
He would wrinkle his nose when expressing dismay,
And on top of his head was an orange toupee.
He wasn’t exactly a jolly old elf,
But he laughed at his own jokes, in spite of himself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his dimple,
Soon gave me to know all his answers were simple.
He spoke many words about fears he had harbored,
Then tiring of us, he turned towards starboard,
And tapping his clock, he made up his mind,
And giving a nod, up the staircase he climbed;
He sprang to his chopper beneath whirling rotors,
And away they all flew with the sound of loud motors.

But I heard him exclaim, seated by his third spouse:
“Happy Christmas to all: see you in the White House.”

Dick Hacken,
presented 8 December 2015