Christmas Poetry

'Twas the night before Christmas, and alone on his land, Dick Cheney was stirring with a gun in his hands. He was plotting to steal children's gifts from an underground lair, in hopes that his evil would make people care. He would sneak into houses and torture the weak, just like old times. If they tried to object, the CIA would accuse them of crimes. Old Cheney set off, his heart black as night, with hopes that his evil soon would take flight. He arrived at a house with malice and hate, hoping his victims had not stayed up late. He crawled down the chimney in one stealthy flight, hoping not to be seen in the moon's shimmering light. He saw the names Sasha, Malia, and glanced at his map. Old Cheney had wandered straight into a trap. The Obama girls' stockings were hung by the fire with care, in hopes that Joe Biden soon would be there. Cheney was panicked and felt a terrible chill. Fear shook his world. Old Cheney felt ill. He could feel his pulse pound, at he least he did before he collapsed to the ground. When Cheney awoke, he was alone in a room. His mood was uneasy, with just a touch of dark gloom. Three masked men approached from the door. A strong twist of irony soon was in store. Tied to a board, a rag in his mouth and a mask on his head, Cheney was fearful that soon he'd be dead. The waterboard trick didn't look all that fun. Cheney sobbed like a girl and soiled his pants before it was done. As Cheney lay huddled and covered in poo, he could hear a faint voice call from the blue. "The favor's repaid, and all is quite well. Perhaps your war crimes won't land you hell." The voice that he heard was that of Saint Nick. "Merry Christmas you douchebag named Dick!" Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!