When I was but a young lad, I idolized Smokey Robinson. I always wanted to be able to sing like him, but then puberty hit and there went the falsetto (such as it ever was in the first place). I loved the way he put words together; Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan called Smokey Robinson "America's greatest living poet." But how could I (or anyone, for that matter) compete with "...when it's cold outside, I've got the month of May...?"
I had long ago given up on my Smokey dreams. But then I recently watched Hitsville, a documentary about the making of Motown. There was a scene of Smokey and The Miracles performing along with the rest of the Motown Revue at the legendary Apollo Theater. Hope springs eternal!
As it turns out, even at my advanced age and weight, I am probably now a better dancer than Smokey Robinson ever was. In the documentary, Motown founder Berry Gordy rips Robinson's attempts at terpsichore. Smokey's dance moves are to those of the other Motown artists what Mick Jagger is to his inspiration, James Brown.
So, with profound apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, I present this look back at the WORST YEAR EVER! I should probably also apologize to William Wadsworth Longfellow, as well. I can't adhere to a particular metre, so while one stanza will be reminiscent of "A Visit From St. Nicholas," the next might bring to mind "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere." (Of course, in turn, were he alive, Longfellow should probably apologize to all the English Romantics from whom he appropriated his style.) Anyway, here we go:
'Tis the day before Christmas and all through the land
Herr Trump and his minions are all pounding sand.
His lawyers kept flailing, but ran out of time,
And all left behind just a trail of slime.
Joe Biden's election, while hardly a shock,
Exposed Donald Trump, who's now deeply in hock.
His creditors screaming, they want what is due,
To get what is theirs, they now stand in a queue.
Regina kept closing the whole city down,
'Til what once was vibrant became a ghost town.
No restaurants, no workouts, no tattoos, no fun,
In protest, the knuckleheads each brought a gun.
The curfew established from 10 until five,
In hopes that it might keep some people alive.
But protesters screamed, "There's really no way,
I want to be free, so others must pay!"
In four weeks or so, a President Biden,
And all of the Trumpies will go into hidin'.
Their criminal acts would fill up a garden,
And many are state crimes for which there's no pardon.
A non-soon grabbed hold of the weather this year,
So drought must come next, all our scientists fear.
But Trump and his cronies they paused all their fencin'
To tout a new city, just outside of Benson.
Now, Wildcat football, it really does stink,
A lot has to do with Coach Sumlin, we think.
They've lost 10 games straight and we're thinkin', by God,
How strange that we're suddenly missing Rich Rod!
On Mannion! On Nnaji! On Green! Oh, the hype!
How soon did that team revert back to type?
Coach Miller has shown he can grab some big names,
Although we would rather his teams win big games.
The Cat women's hoop team is really badass,
They rebound, they dribble, they shoot and they pass.
The women delight all their fans without fail,
And unlike the men, they fill up McKale.
The Caucasian Gun Guys, they sure chose their path,
Their fury was strong but they all sucked at math.
His street-rabble throng, they claimed to be heroes,
Too bad their clown lost by an eight with six zeroes.
Melania, his wife, sadly stands by his side,
But no one is sure of the last time she cried.
How sad for her to be all wrapped in a box,
But she cannot cry 'cause of all the Botox.
For all the deniers whose logic is misty,
The big question now is how dumb is Steve Christy.
He sided with those disregarding the vote,
And so, in the process, became one big scrote.
Consider the plight of poor Martha McSally,
Publicly shamed at a redneck Trump rally.
No longer a part of United States Senate,
A victim of timing, just like the film Tenet.
Fox News keeps on looking for something to shout,
Outflanked on the right, they're now losing their clout.
Last night, they were all in a bunch about Swalwell,
He had an affair—no wait! That was Falwell.
As people keep dying, like some brain-dead mynah,
All Donald will say, "It's not me! It's from China."
Trump follows the pattern of his father, Fred,
"Of foremost importance is I am not dead."
Response to the virus brought our country shame,
The morons at fault are so easy to name
The landscape's ablaze with bright funeral pyres,
Too bad they're not full of COVID deniers.
The year is now ending and, wow, none too soon,
A tragic November, a horrible June,
For those of you maskers who did what was right,
Merry Christmas to all and let's keep up the fight!