The Night Before Christmas: Recession Remix - Holiday Week

ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTORS Courtney Garcia

A 1914 Japanese illustration of the Santa Claus legend. Photo by kodomo no tomo.

T’was the night before Christmas, and the tent city was packed,
With Occupied citizens in D-I-Y shacks.
Discussions of revolution were held at the pit,
In hopes that St. Nicholas might give a shit.

The children were squashed in sleeping bag-turned-beds,
While visions of increased government spending danced through their heads.
Mamma and I’d planned to turn it up a notch,
But both passed out drunk off our last bottle of Scotch.

When out in the field, the natives got restless,
I sprang from my air mattress, anticipating protest.
Away to the door-flap I flew like a flash,
Unzipped the canopy and stepped in cigarette ash.

The moon shed a spotlight on the crap-colored snow,
A blatant reminder of our bleak life below.
When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear,
But a chauffeur-drawn sleigh, and eight elitist reindeer.

With a little old passenger, so portly and content,
I knew in a moment it was the Top 1 percent.
More cunning than serpents his minions they came,
And he gave them a bonus and congratulated them by name!

“Now Bank of America! Now, JP Morgan! Now, Goldman Sachs and AIG!
On, CitiGroup! On, Wells Fargo! On, Barclays and private equity!
To the top of the country! To the top of the people!
And smile arrogantly when they claim it’s unequal.”

The Pillage of this Nation flamboyantly arrived,
In a hybrid-luxury sleigh with free reign to the sky.
And over the projects, the rich bitches flew,
With a sleigh full of tax breaks, and Tim Geithner too.

Then a piercing noise struck from a short ways away,
The bellowing shrieks from victims of pepper spray.
As I downed a few Advil for my quickly mounting hangover,
The Top 1 percent landed on 24s, like he thought he was Jehovah.

He was dressed in straight Prada, from his head to his toes,
His shoes were made of alligator with diamond-crusted soles.
A bundle of write-offs he had flung on his back,
Hidden not-so-inconspicuously in his Louis Vuitton sack.

His eyes, Lasik surgery! His dimples, um, Botox!
His cheeks were porky from truffles and cured lox.
His lips were stained from fine Italian wine,
And he had miserable gas though he really didn’t mind.

A hundred dollar pipe he held tight in his veneers,
And he regarded, like a compliment, the sound of our sneers.
He was draped in all fur, a cloak red, white and blue,
And he mouthed to me politely, “Don’t you wish this was you?”

He was ugly and dry, he carried weight in his waist,
And I laughed because rich people always have poor taste.
The streetlight reflecting off his prematurely bald head,
Reminded me of how karma can be payback instead.

He spoke not a word, he had nothing to say,
He feared he might reveal the clues to his cache.
Not that he’d bear the burden of faux pax,
He might even be rewarded with a day at the spa.

When the commoners began organizing, he sprang to his sleigh,
Tipped Jay-Z for a t-shirt, and ordered urgent getaway.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he rode of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, fuck you, good-night!”

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