A Visit From St. Merrick

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when through the Southern White House 

Not a creature was stirring, not even Third Spouse;
The doors were doubled bolted ever so tight,
In hopes that Antifa wouldn’t cause chaos this night; 

The children were passed out after taking cocaine;
While visions of new Trump casinos danced in their brains;
And Ivanka in her nightie, and I in my MAGA cap,
Had just settled on down for an Adderall-free nap,
When out on the lawn there arose noise and confusion,
I waddled from my bed to see if this was some sort of collusion.
Away to the window I sauntered so fast,
Opened the curtain and pushed up the glass.
The moon sparkling bright on the West Palm Beach night,
Gave an eerie feeling of something not right,
What to my frightened eyes did come then,
But an FBI van and eight prominent lawmen and women,
With a little old driver so modest and bland,
I knew in a moment he must be Merrimack Garland.
More rapid than eagles his posse they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: 

“Now Letitia! now, Fani! now Cyrus and E.Jean!
On, Mary! on, Eric! on Michael and Alvin!
To the back of the building! We must fulfill our vow!
Now indict him! Indict him! Indict him now!"
Swirling together a tornado of justice arose,
Rushing the building was a team of my most dastardly foes;
Through the servants’ quarters they dashed on through
With binders full of indictments and Merrick Garland too—
And then, in a moment, I heard someone scoot
The stepping and scruffing of each little boot.
As I attempted to hide, to avoid taking a stand,
Through the bedroom door came Merrimack with cuffs in his hand.
He was dressed in a suit, from his head down to his toes,
I deeply regretted he was not in a Supreme Court robe,
A bundle of indictments he had flung under his arm,
And yet there was something about him; he had quite the charm!
His eyes—how they glistened! his smile, quite kind
His cheekbones were strong, he was sound in both body and mind
His tiny mouth was pursed up, he was not in a rage
And the gray hair on his head showed wisdom and age; 

The end of a cigar he held tight in his mouth,
And the smoke, it came out as tiny puffs drifting south,
He had a serious face and stared straight into my soul;
He was not one to laugh, nor was he one to cajole,
He was tiny and short, almost as if he were some kind of elf,
This image made me giggle, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a nod of his head
Soon gave me to know that I had much to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And took all my papers, laptops, and other fun perks,
Texts from Jordan and Meadows, somehow he knew,
Call log from Tucker and Hannity, he found every clue;
His team was relentless, they took it all,
He then whistled quite loudly which was the finishing call.
But I heard him exclaim, as I whimpered and wailed–
“Happy Christmas Donald, let's get you to jail!”