Twas the night before Christmas and throughout the White House,
Incriminating emails with gasoline to douse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
With hopes that Russia-gate would not soon ensnare;
The trump kids were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of subpoenas dropped by the feds;
And Melania in her kerchief and Donald in his cap,
Thinking Obama must surely the phone lines did tap;
When out on the south lawn arose such a clatter,
“Is it a CNN truck
and that ol rascal Jake Tapper?”
Away to the window Trump flew like a flash,
Hoping that Don Junior deleted the incriminating web cache;
When what to his wondering eye should appear,
Mueller’s legal team preparing a right robust voir dire;
With an approaching young lawyer, so lively and quick,
Don wondered if he was history’s next Tricky Dick;
“Now, Manafort, now Spicey, now Comey now Flynn,
Who’s lawyered up and ready to stick the knife in?”
The Donald he paces by the 60 inch flat screen,
His fingers dripping from fast food cuisine;
“I must attack these betrayers with the snarkiest tweet,
To give Fox News a gem to repeat;
This stress is giving me a harsh panic attack,
God why did Sessions talk with Sergey Kisliak!
I feel as though the wolves are closing in,
Better get on the hotline and call my old pal Putin;
Toward Moscow I’ll direct air force one to take flight,
Dasvidaniya to all, and to all a good
night!”
