With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore and Citizens for Limited Taxation’s Barbara Anderson; and best wishes for the holidays to all.
’Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the Statehouse
Not a creature was stirring, not a lobbyist or other species of louse.
The stockings were hung in the chambers with care,
In hopes that the pork delivery would soon be there.
The members were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of patronage danced in their heads.
Deval in his ’kerchief, and DeLeo in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the Common there arose such a clatter,
they sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window they flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of new tax revenue to objects below.
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But CLT’s Anderson and what looked like eight tiny reindeer.
This not-so-old driver, so lively and quick,
was, to be sure, no St. Nick.
But more rapid than eagles her coursers they came,
As she whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Keenan! Now, Ehrlich! Now, Ted and Fred Berry!
On, Tommy! On, Brucie and Beverly’s Jerry!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now bash those taxes! Dash them all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to that golden dome the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of no-votes and an override too.
And then, in a twinkling, was heard on the roof