'Twas the Night Before the Election
The numbers were taken by pollsters with care.
'Twas Election Night Eve, and all through the land,
The pundits were waiting, with hot takes in hand.
The numbers were taken by pollsters with care,
And this year, they’re right—they promise, they swear!
My son was in bed, but he wasn’t asleep—
He, too, was dreading the big orange creep.
And Mama in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Both pulled out our phones to check
When out on the lawn rose a hullabaloo,
And I feared that the Haitians had come for us, too.
Away to the window, I shuffled in slippers,
Certain I’d catch sight of foreign vote-flippers.
But the moon on the breast of the crisp autumn leaves
Did not illumine Haitians, nor Antifa, nor thieves.
There on the grass (and then on my plants)
Walked ol’ Donald Trump and weird JD Vance.
With a wave and a smirk, they strolled toward my door,
While I rushed down the stairs, wondering what lay in store.
Then Trump came in close, his voice grim and dire,
To make sure I knew his accusers were liars.
“That STORMY! That COHEN! And KELLY and CARROLL!
The CHENEYS! That JACK SMITH! And RUDY—he’s feral!
Forget what they say, ignore all I’ve done—
If everyone does it, the race will be won!”
He barged into my house, seeming quite smitten,
With JD close behind like a scared little kitten.
I hurried to catch these election night specters,
as Don rambled on about Hannibal Lecter.
But then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The tipping and tapping of high-heeled hooves.
I thought it might be old Joe Whatshisname,
Then down from my chimney, Kamala came!
She was dressed in a pantsuit from her head to her toes,
I think it was “brat green,” but who really knows?
The Democrats’ platform was held in her hands,
Trump scoffed, “I don’t need one. I have concepts of plans.”
Harris declared, “I’m your vote! I’m your voice!
Plus, let’s be real: you don’t have much choice.”
Then her eyes met with Trump’s in a staring contest!
Her gaze—how it seethed! His own—not impressed!
There in my living room, chaos unfurled
’Twixt the Donald and Harris o’er fate of the world.
One candidate red, one candidate blue,
It was then I decided just what I should do.
“I’ve heard all your thoughts, your ideas were noted,
But the fact of it is that I’ve already voted.
What’s more, it’s late—nearly three in the mornin’,
And my vote barely counts because I’m Californian.”
They looked at each other, their jaws on the floor.
“California! P’shaw! You should have said so before!”
Then out they all went, both left- and right-wingers.
Their only farewells to me? Middle fingers.
Each one drove away in a jet-black Range Rover,
While I counted the minutes ‘til voting was over.
Then I went back to bed, and I thought as I plopped,
“Maybe that’s how you get their text messages to STOP.”
Have you watched my short film?
In case you missed it, I wrote, directed, animated, and starred in a short film. You can watch it right here on Chortle.
If you don't win an Oscar maybe you can win whatever one wins for comic political poetry
so good