Friday, 25 December 2015

Twas the night before Christmas (with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

Twas the night before Christmas, and in Labour’s house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Jeremy soon would be there.

Corbynistas were nestled all snug in their beds,
Political utopias danced in their heads.
It’s ok, they dreamt, don’t pay heed to the polls,
The party loves Jezza, despite the own goals.

It’s not pesky voters ‘bout whom we should bother,
As Brecht said, dissolve them, then elect another.
Not true that each interview’s now a car-crash,
Or that they didn’t trust us with their hard-earned cash.

I looked up to heaven, despairing of all
How would the party ever get over this fall?
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a beardy old driver who, twinkling, says,
“Merry Winterval“, I knew it must be St Jez.
More rapid than eagles’ advisers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Johnny! now, Seumas! now, Fletcher and Lansman!
On, Kenneth! On, Owen! On Murray and German!
Drive away those MPs! Drive them up the wall!
We’ll replace them with our folk, for one and for all!”

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Jeremy came with a bound.

He wasn’t quite Santa, and not dressed in red,
Apart from the tie, and the thoughts in his head.
He was dressed in a jacket, and a sooty smile,
Kind of Seventies-geography-teacher in style.

But his eyes, how they twinkled! He seemed quite delighted
To see the party’s good name with Stop the War blighted.
An ascetic face, the skinniest belly,
Entirely unbothered by the folk on the telly.

He opened his sack, he opened it wide,
As all of us wondered just what was inside.
You see, his approach hadn’t changed through the years
Within, it was all full of Eighties ideas.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Distributing pamphlets, as if quite beserk.
Then, laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But someone exclaimed, ‘ere they drove out of sight,
“If he’s still here next Xmas, it’s thank you and good-night!”

This post first published at Labour Uncut

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