by WonkoKevin

Merry Christmas from Wonkosphere!

 (with all respect to Clement Clarke Moore)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the country
Not a candidate was stirring, not even Mitt Romney;
The candidates’ stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Joementum soon would be there;
The voters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of poll numbers danced in their heads;
And Ann Coulter in her ‘kerchief, and Mark Penn in his cap,
Had just settled down for an extremely short winter’s nap,
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 flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen Iowa/New Hampshire snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Ron Paul flashmob, equiped with WiFi gear;
A man was accompanying them, so lively and with so many views,
I knew in a moment it must be Chris Matthews.

More rapid than eagles his questions they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Kucinich! now, Gravel! now, Dodd and Biden!
On, Hunter! on Keyes! on, Giuliani and Thompson!
To the top of the stage! to the top of the podium!
Now debate away! debate away! debate away all!

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of gifts, and Chris Cillizza too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The transmission of each little YouTube spoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Real Clear Politics and Zogby came with a bound.

They were dressed all in fur, from their head to their feet,
And they brought in the camera people waiting on the street;
A bundle of candidate preference questions they had written down,
And even some Draft Al Gore activists were camped on my lawn.

Their questions — how they probed! Their two tail comparisons how statistical!
Their demographic questions were like torture, their interpretations quite mystical!

A Washington Post reporter stepped in, with a tie made of bow,
And a beard of his chin that was as white as the snow;
The stump of a Number Two pencil he held tight in his teeth,
And his Blackberry was hung around his neck 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 old writer,
And I laughed when I saw him, and my head felt lighter;
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 typing,
And he filled up his column without even resorting to any Clinton-sniping;
And laying his finger aside of his prose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his web team, to his team gave a whistle,
And they uploaded that blog post like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Only nine days to Iowa, and to all a Wonko good-night!”

This entry was posted on Monday, December 24th, 2007 at 7:41 am and is filed under Humor, Wonkosphere, Horse race. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.