‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through America
Not a creature was stirring, not even the president from Kenya.
The stockings were hung by expectations for Obamacare,
In hopes that black bastard would offer socialist medicine there.
The leeches were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of government assistance danced in their heads.
And mamma in her negligee, and I in my briefs,
Had just settled down for our yearly lovemaking between the sheets.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I had violent flashbacks of #blacklivesmatter.
Away to the window I flew with my gun,
Tore open the shutters and pointed for protesters on the run.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the whiteness of my life a beautiful glow.
When, what to my wizened eyes should notice,
But a black helicopter, most likely that of your POTUS.
With a military pilot, saluting the shadowy figure,
I knew in a moment it must be that black… person.
More conniving than Stalin, his lanky figure came,
And he dare address me by my Christian name!
“Hey Sean, how’s it going?
Let’s bury the hatchet! Christmas is no time for fighting!
To the start of a new beginning! To working together!
Now stop the partisanship! Stop it! Stop it all!”
As the arm attached to my fist was about to fly,
I realized that my gun was in my other hand, pointed to the sky.
So I set my crosshairs on his Kenyan head,
And 12 Secret Service officials pummeled me near-dead.
And then, in a flash, I woke in my bed,
The beating, the blood loss, that communist meeting never happened.
As I clutched my rifle, my common-law wife,
Downstairs came a noise that made me want to take a life.
I tiptoed down the steps, brief-clad and ready,
To snipe the intruder from cover because I’m that deadly.
A lean stature was in the shadow of the Christmas tree,
It was Obama, and dammit, he wasn’t getting off easy.
His eyes—how sunken! His dimples how hollow!
Like the tipped bullets in my gun that would follow!
His big-lipped mouth was puckered in thought,
And the hair on his head stressed white due to our clout.
The bloodlust thoughts in my head of his face being marred,
Made my stump of a penis super rock hard.
And I held my rifle at the ready,
And I shot and shot until my arm was jelly!
But the Marxist was gone, and no trace of his entry to be seen,
And I broke down in tears, reality had taken its leave!
I cradled my rifle-wife, sobbing between blubbers,
Waking up hours later in a psych ward, my mind apparently in druthers.
Fox News President Roger Ailes was huddled at my bedside,
And my stirring brought him joy, for I could be on the air by nine.
Speechifying while laying his finger aside my crotch,
“Our best anchors have ended up here,” he sputtered. “Your crazy is now clinically top-notch!”
As I took my seat for the broadcast,
My teleprompter was fixed and primed for my rant.
As I remembered Obama’s pleas for peace, red filled my sight,
“This is Sean Hannity,” I shouted, “And those liberals won’t last the night!”