or What We-ville Really Wants for Christmas

Every We

Down in We-ville

Loved Thanksgiving dinner

 

But the Drumpf,

Who was We-ville’s

New zero-sum winner

 

Did not like Thanksgiving, not one little bit!

But this was not something that he could admit.

 

The Drumpf hated family sit-down occasions

(Although he felt better if guests were Caucasians

And only of certain religious persuasions)

But asked about this, he would tend toward evasions.

 

It could be that kinship was just not his thing

Or that too many ladies had sported his bling

Such that “family affair” had a binary meaning

Which certainly made for an awkward convening.

 

So the holiday feast happened at Mar-a-Lago,

The gold-plated site of a public farrago:

Was it business or pleasure, a club or a haven?

Or a hub of litigiousness, brazen and craven?

 

There were hedge controversies and airport disputes,

Shrubbery struggles and flag-size lawsuits.

But the Drumpf’s Winter Palace was his gilded refuge,

Where his hands may be small, but his flagpole is YUGE.

 

On the menu were oysters and littleneck clams

Ahi tuna martinis and scallops and lambs.

But the one course that served as the most pointed jibe

Directed toward We-ville, like some diatribe—

 

Was a sliver of salad called “Mr. Drumpf’s Wedge,” *

Which even for him seemed a joke with an edge

Much too sharp—for We-ville had broken apart,

As Drumpf’s oratory drove spikes through its heart.

 

It was almost as if Mr. Drumpf had an angle,

A long-running plot that was meant to entangle

The families of We-ville in spiteful distraction,

A con that says: Family is second to faction.

 

The bitterest casualty was Turkey Day,

Which was cancelled from Portland to Chesapeake Bay,

Or went forward as planned, but with heated polemic,

So that Us-and-Them thinking became a pandemic.

 

But while Drumpf and his Thanksgiving guests ate like kings,

A quieter force quietly pulled the strings

Of this flame-throwing puppet, who was little the wiser

To the dire machinations of his top advisor.

 

For our purposes here we will just call him “Mammon,”*

Although we have honestly yet to examine

Whether wealth is the aim of this mystery man,

Or some far more nefarious, dastardly plan.

 

At the helm of an agit-prop site we’ll call “Shitefart,”

He forged a tableau for dispensing “Alt-Right” art.

This “artistry” seeks to contrive mortal threats

Out of misinformation and crude epithets.

 

Thus did We-villians come to feel so disaffected,

That quiet agendas went forth undetected.

It wasn’t that Mammon believed Shitefart’s lies;

It’s that what he intended, no one could surmise.

 

Was it raw, naked power, a We-ville insurgency,

Or a simple maneuver to foment divergency,

To render the power of We-ville quite moot?

A stratagem proving itself quite astute.

 

But Mammon was keeping the game plan so cryptic,

That some We-ville skeptics feared apocalyptic

Near futures for certain more vulnerable We’s,

Especially We’s who hailed from overseas.

 

Amidst all this muddle, discord and disorder,

Mammon et al. drew up a New World Order.

 

#

 

It was time for all We-ville to reunify,

To sit at the table and — at least try

To remember a time when they saw eye-to-eye.

 

With Christmas at hand, and the imminent threat

Of a second familial tradition unmet,

The We’s cried “ENOUGH!” and, their voices, as one,

Sang Drumpf their national song, just for fun!

 

For twenty-four hours, they kept up the singing,

No matter their color or creed or upbringing.

They joined hands in Fresno, Atlanta and Juneau,

St. Louis, Chicago, Poughkeepsie, and Reno.

The meaning of this struck at Drumpf, like a coup:

In essence, they sang, “We love US more than YOU!”

 

The We’s loved their mamas and uncles and cats,

And neighbors and grannies, despite all the spats.

They were sick of the fear and the lies and the hating,

The trolling and sneering and online debating.

 

Drumpf looked down from his tower with tears in his eyes,

He was starting to see through his clever disguise.

High on applause, he had played the inciter,

But he had been played by a dark-lord speechwriter.

 

Meanwhile, the We’s had been playing themselves,

Playing themselves and betraying themselves.

They wanted their Thanksgiving back, as it were,

And to We-ville’s great shock, Drumpf replied, “I CONCUR!”

 

Turns out, all Drumpf wanted was the We’s admiration

(And an end to Thanksgiving, its utter cessation,

At least, as an intimate family meal)

And so We-ville offered him quite a good deal:

 

“Step aside, Mr. Drumpf!” tweeted one valiant We.

“In return, we’ll rename our Thanksgiving for Thee!”

Mr. Drumpf thought about it and tweeted his pledge:

“It’s a DEAL! How ‘bout ‘Day of the Drumpfsgiving Wedge’?”

 

So We-ville agreed to the odd compromise,

In return for averting their nation’s demise.

On late-autumn Thursdays for the rest of Drumpf’s days,

We-villians ate lettuce upon TV trays …

 

And watched the Drumfpsgiving Day Special each year

On the “DrumpfVision Network, YUGE, Great, and Premier!”

Starring Drumpf and his fifth and (he swears) final bride.

On the screen: tweets of thanks — for forgoing his pride,

And for saving fair We-ville, by stepping aside.

 

Now the turkey is served on the following Friday,

Informally known now as “Favorite Pie-Day.”

And so We-ville and Drumpf got the things that they craved:

Official remembrance; democracy saved!

 

A statue of Drumpf, all in gold, still abides

At the foot of Mount Rushmore, where park-ranger guides

Tell the story of Drumpfsgiving to eager young tots,

While the Visitor’s Casino rings with nickel slots.

 

A plaque reads, “Divided, we once nearly FELL!”

“So sad! Now you losers can all go to hell.”

 

*A little out of date, of course. The personage referenced—he who must not be named—is long out of the picture. But two years ago, things were so fraught that I couldn’t bring myself to post this thing at all. I was in no mood for laughter or absurd dream-thinking.