‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,
Not a Clinton was stirring, not even Bill’s spouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Huma Abedin soon would be there.
The Clintons were cuddled up in separate beds,
While visions of the White House danced in their heads.
Ma Hillary in Depends and Bill in the buff,
And Chelsea downstairs who wondered what was up,
For out on the road there arose such a clatter,
Was it Fight for $15 or a was it Black Lives Matter?
Away to the window, Chelsea mad dashed,
Then opened the shutters and threw up the sash,
The moon on the breast of THAT woman you know?
Secret Service called her Energizer, one of Bill’s hoes.
But what to Chel’s wondering eyes should appear,
A Smart car, a hybrid, drawing so near.
The little old driver so beat down and haggard,
Was that Huma Abedin? Old girl looked so shattered.
Fast as she could she drove up the lane,
Chelsea whistled and shouted and cried out by name:
“Is it Huma now? Barb Boxer? Sanders, Oprah Winfrey?”
“Al Sharpton, Joy Behar, a union boss, Wolf Blitzer?”
“Come up the drive and into our abode,”
“We don’t care for money here, we’re almost dead broke”.
As the attack ads that air among voters duly empowered,
To choose between change and eight years fallen sour,
Up to the house Huma Abedin flew,
Faster than a pundit can claim it’s “fake news”.
And then in the foyer Chelsea heard the real truth:
Mom’s life of pretending had been of no use.
Marine Corps and sniper fire, those stories did resound.
The server, the foundation, they drug poll numbers down.
And forty years of promises that never seemed to add up?
Voters were supposed to be stupid and eat that stuff up!
“How can this be…is this some kind of joke?”
What about the rage and the fear the media had stoked?