By: Philip Villamor
(After the poem, ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’ by Clement Clarke Moore)
‘Twas Election Day eve and all through the states,
Strange forces were brewing, motivated by hate;
Guards ordered to precincts in order to scare
The minority voters that might show up there.
The children, who were lying dead tired in bed,
Dreamt of zoom calls and masks and had feelings of dread.
My wife in her shirt, and I in my shorts,
Were viewing the news channel’s latest report,
When over the sound waves there came a long beep…
The news was the latest on a new POTUS tweet.
To the bathroom I ran, or quickly walked,
brushing my teeth while the reporter talked.
The guttural sound from the reporter’s throat
Was sounding alarms about the upcoming vote.
As I entered the bedroom again there appeared
The words of the tweet that was feeding the fear,
From the big orange man who I felt must be sick
Or, sadly, it could be he was simply a prick.
More rapid than racists can rationalize,
He tweeted his insults, denials, and lies.
The Dems, they are voting multiple times,
Our Post Office says mailed in votes won’t align.
If you want your vote to count this fall,
Vote in your precinct or vote not at all.
As leaves that before wild hurricanes fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the White House, reporters they flew
With a boat load of questions for The Donald to eschew –
And then, while snacking, I heard further news,
The reporters said Trump was there on the move.
As I pecked at my popcorn and drank down my beer,
Through the news room marched Donald J. Trump and he jeered…
He glowed of the sun?… from his head to his hands,
Though his clothes were not tarnished and not at all bland.
A bundle of ballots he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a burglar while opening his pack.
His eyes – how they widened, his eyebrows, how scary!
His cheeks were like orange, and I do mean very!
Hi gaping big mouth seemed ready to go,
And I guess you could call his teeth white as snow.
The hair he held dear was held tight with spray,
Though the fan that was near him, it did make it sway.
He was angry and stiff, a curmudgeon not well,
And I scoffed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A snarl of his lip and a cock of his head
Soon gave me to know we had much to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And dumped all the ballots; then turned like a jerk,
And pointing his finger towards his men like a gun,
Straight to his side, the secret service did run.
While on his way to his ride, he gave a thumbs up,
And away they all drove as he teased a Good Luck.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
I’m not leaving quietly, You’re in for a fight!
Philip Villamor is an Administrator for an Educational Institution in Orange County. He has a B.A degree in Political Science (UCSB) and a M.A. degree in Educational Leadership (SDSU).
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