'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the nation,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the Heritage Foundation.
Pork riders were tacked onto the budgets with care,
In hope that Ways & Means auditors would not go there.
The Democrats were nestled all snug in their beds,
While Bush's approval ratings danced in their heads.
And Bill in his buff, and Hillary in sleep mask,
Had just settled in to sleep on their task.
Hillary was facing a bid for election,
and Bill was stricken with four-hour erection.
He wished he had not read priapism on wikipedia,
and Hillary was cursing the mainstream media.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Hillary sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window she flew like a witch,
while Bill feigned a snore and mouthed the word "bitch".
"What is it? Who's out there? Who goes down below?"
Hillary cried out but heard no answer from snow.
Like white chocolate unicorns gliding on ice,
Hillary imagined she saw everything nice.
The visions she saw were far from the grim,
like DNC coffers stacked up to the brim.
Rahm Emanuel and Carville were ready to serve,
and her personal fundraising was ahead of the curve.
Yet there was some nagging and terrible tingle,
what was amiss did not come with a jingle.
But each moving shadow was only a branch,
as common as brush cleared away from a ranch.
"You're jumping at nothing and yelling at ghosts,
don't listen to Chris Matthews and his Obama boasts.
That senator is no Kennedy, whether Robert or John,
and he's certainly not spending this night on our lawn."
Hillary slapped his hand and gave Bill a glare,
then pretended to fix a dent in her hair.
"I fear no beast with man-thing blood,
I will grind them all down into the mud."
Her cockiness hid her deepest fear,
and she found herself far from holiday cheer.
Her committee was ready and her papers prepared,
but Barack Obama had not yet declared.
Far away in the tropics with a sweet cool drink,
a man named Barack was perched on the brink.
To run or not was his fateful decision,
but soft sands and surf were the sum of his vision.
It took no prophet to predict his course,
and it took no diviner to find his source.
Hillary's crisis was really most tragic,
when you realize Obama was made out of magic.
Obama sprang to his bluetooth, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all rushed like a Tomahawk missile.
Some heard him exclaim as they boarded their flight,
"I declare my candidacy to all, and to all a good night!"
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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