Tax Lawyer's Blog

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, here is my version of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas:

‘Twas the Night Before an Obama Christmas

“Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,
Not a tax break was stirring not even inn’ spouse.
The Bush cuts weren’t permanent, stim checks weren’t enough.
The economy was tanking, the news was quite rough.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Barry O soon would be there.
Tax preparers were nestled all stiff in their threads,
While visions of refunds danced in their heads.

I, in green shades and warm, woolen cap,
Had just lay down for a pre-tax season nap,
When out on my lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my lair to examine the matter.

Away to the window I trudged like a sloth,
Grabbed at the drapes and ripped at the cloth.
Suddenly a cloud masked all the moonlight,
The light became dark, the dark became bright.

Then what to my cynical eyes should arise,
But a miniature sleigh and eight do-gooder guys,
With a skinny young driver, graceful and slow,
I knew in a moment ’twas St. Barry O.

More rapid than lightning his henchman they came,
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Daschle! now, Clinton! now, Duncan and Bates!
On, Holder! on Geithner! on, Richardson and Gates!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now tax away! tax away! tax away all!”
As birds of the north in the winter south fly,
Fearing the cold they take to the sky,

So up to the roof O’s advisors they flew,
With a sleigh full of tax hikes and St. Barry O too.
And then, in an instant, I heard on the roof
The clicking and tapping of each “noble” goof. 

I pulled in my hand, and had just turned around,
When down the chimney O came with a bound.
He was dressed all in red, from his head to his foot,
But his clothes were devoid of all ashes and soot.

An empty white sack he had flung o’er his back,
He looked at me harshly as if I’d been lax.
His mouth, how it frowned. His eyes, how they glared.
He resembled a man whom fate had ensnared.

His lips were pursed, drawn down in a wave,
His chin was as smooth as the speeches he gave,
He opened the sack, laid it out like a net,
This Saint had arrived not to give, but to get.

His face was drawn; he had large floppy ears,
He eye-balled me close like a peeping-tom leers.
He was wiry and lean, a right serious young elf,
I recoiled when I saw him, being a tax man m’self.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had much to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his jag,
He emptied the stockings and filled his big bag.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his gang gave a missive,
And away they all flew like cocky young Ic’rus.
Then I heard him exclaim, ere he ’scaped in a stealth, 

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all spread the wealth.”

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