Twas the night before Solstice, and all through the park
No protesters were stirring, even after the dark.
Occupiers were seething, all mad at The Man,
’Tis Wall Street we’re blamin’ and we’re not a fan.
When out of the mud there arose a great crash,
Perhaps it was thugs or a junkie on hash.
I undid my sleeping bag, made fine from bamboo.
(Thank Gaia it was clean and recyclable too.)
I climbed from the muck (or maybe the mire),
And looked through the tents or just a bit higher.
My friends to the left (there were many of those),
They continued to sleep. They continued to doze.
I heard a loud voice or maybe some chanting,
“Whose street? Our street!” someone is sleep ranting.
I shuffled through the crowd, across frozen ground.
Somewhere nearby an answer must be found.
The camp light was eerie, lit bright by the moon.
No, that’s just a camera and some NPR loon.
Then an Escalade pulled up with a flash.
With 400 horses, that sleigh cost big cash.
The hybrided monster held a huge crowd inside.
All sipping Cristal and pimping their ride.
Their SUV silent, the crowd raised a toast.
They toasted their master. They toasted their host.
He called out to them for he knew them by name.
Each one of them bowed – they were pawns in his game.
Now Van Jones! Now Holder! Now some Hollywood vixen!
On Marx! On Mao! It’s capitalism we’re fixin’.
They threw open the doors and threw lots of scratch.
When giving out money, his record unmatched.
He pulled tight on their strings with Gepetto-ish pride.
They did all he said since he ruled the lib side.
The flunkies moved quickly, through marchers all sleeping.
Through tents and police lines, the givers went creeping.
They threw their support to Occupiers they found.
They handed out money and iPads all ’round.
Protesters were silent, no more police they would F.
And Pepperspray cop now unneeded as ref.
They dreamed of revolt both global and red,
While images of Occupying marched through their heads.
Then the black car door opened just one more time.
I saw a foot clear as the door it did chime.
The Hungarian elf with briefcase in hand,
Jumped out of his car dressed decidedly grand.
His attire was Armani, from head to his toe,
And his shoes were so shiny, it seemed they did glow.
He was dressed to the nines, with lots of zeros.
He funded the left. He was one of their heroes.
His silver head furrowed, as he started to frown.
His bushy eyebrows raised as he looked around.
The bags ’neath those eyes were full like a stocking.
His look it was sour, from many a Beck mocking.
His fingers were black from counting his money.
His jowels jiggled some and he talked a bit funny.
That he was a sly fox, it need not be stated.
Which is for best, since we know Fox he hated.
He spoke not a word, but his hands traced a nine.
Then did it again to mock a popular whine.
Then held up a finger (you know which he’d present),
Boasting “I’m the 1 of the 1 of the 1-est percent.”
He walked to the sleigh, as the flunkies bowed down.
And reclined in the back as he raced out of town.
But I heard him holler as they sped from the sight,
Nothing of Christmas or to all a good night.
“Occupy away! Go ahead, do your worst.
“Shut down ports, banks and bridges – just let me know first.”
“Since I’m on the inside, I’ll make lots of dough.”
“That’s how I got rich,” as he laughed “Ho, Ho, Ho.”