At last the Bard of the Bayou appears
Tidings of Love
‘Twas the night before Christmas in Faubourg-St. John
And not a creature was stirring, at home or beyond.
The stockings that hung by the chimneys were frayed
With thousands laid-off and the rest underpaid,
And tucked into spots where they wouldn’t be taken
Were cookies for Santa in case of a break-in.
The kids dreamt of sugar plums dancing with stars,
But the dreams of the grown-ups were really bizarre:
The mayor was trapped with eleven hung jurors
While covered-up cops tossed and turned amidst furor
And uncovered funds plagued the righteous D.A.;
At the UL Lake campus, night terrors misgave
The new chancellor who wished he had never applied;
And with all appeal gone, William Jefferson cried.
Outside City Hall, Occupiers in tents
Dreamt that Santa delivered to just one percent.
It didn’t look good on this Christmas Eve Night
In the City regarded as Care’s oversight.
Having really retired ere retiring, I tried
Not to fret over bills—when a jingling outside
Made me dash to the landing, where, what do I spy?
All the banks of the bayou have been occupied!
“Cher!” Santa cries, though no chubby male-dancer
Or Superstar mom from the sixties gives answer.
When he adds, “Share Alike” I go Oh. Then I notice
Slung over an antler beside where his coat is
His naughty and nice lists, marked “do” and “don’t share”
With a line through the three names that used to be there
—Bin Laden, Gaddafi, and Jong of Korea—
But Arnold, whose love-child he sprang on Maria;
The winning—duh! Sheen; and word tripping Alec;
Weiner in sex-texts explicitly phallic;
Gingrich and Freddie, obscenely entwined;
Cain with his harem of nine-nine-nine;
And the wannabe mommy of Bieber’s firstborn—
They’re all in the line-up, with quite a few more.
A glance at the next page reveals fewer names:
Strangers who rescued a cyclist from flames;
Japanese workers who braved toxic leaks
To prevent an explosion; on Base Little Creek
The United States Navy who honored a kiss;
The Layaway Angels who help kids get gifts;
The man who gave birth to the long Arab Spring
On a square in Tunisia; the people who bring
Supplies to the stricken, from Joplin, Missouri
To Christchurch—but here Santa’s list becomes blurry.
Then as if they’ve been moonstruck, the bank occupiers,
From the ones seeking loans to the foreclosed homebuyers,
Repeat, “Share! Share!” And a wild flight of fancy
Unfolds on the bayou as half-naked Nancy
Gracelessly leaps, abreast jurors hang-gliding,
Towards a mosh-pit of D.A. and judges colliding
Past Weiner and Sheen in a lap dance with bimbos
Where cops do the bump next to William who limbos
Near an arm-flapping Newt reinventing the Freddy
By the old Terminator not looking so steady,
All swinging back ‘round, in our New Orleans fashion
Towards the two-stepping offspring of Cher and Kardashian
To end in a Second Line under my landing
Where Santa’s eight reindeer are no longer standing
Having come to discover the joys of buck jumpin’
Which they do, near a dome-full of Who Dats fist-pumpin.’
Exhausted, I ask, “Who’s the Grand Marshall here?”
From the shoulders of mighty Saint Nicks, he appears
Gazing over the banks, embossed on his chest
A gold number 9 with the Fleur de Lis crest.
“We are black and gold threads in a much larger jersey!”
He cries, as the dancers converge, topsy-turvy,
All for one, one for all, chanting “Tidings of Love!”
As they twirl towards the bayou and rise high above,
One hundred percent of them losing themselves
Ere they revel as one towards two thousand and twelve.
© S. Lyman New Orleans 31 December 2011