Trying hard, and failing, not to make a 2020 hindsight joke

Seldom has a year been more unloved
Or with such relish on the trash-heap shoved.
(Previously.)

The spirit of the season

‘Twas the night before Christmas
In, I think, ’82
And for once, the day came
With no things left to do

The gifts had been bought
And been wrapped in advance
To relax and be still
We at last had the chance

We sat in the living room
Candle-lit, calm
And chatted like grownups
Not a boy and his mom

The Christmas decor
Caught the flickering light
It sparkled and gleamed
As we talked through the night

Our tone, as we spoke
Was hushed and subdued
Neither one wishing
To spoil the mood

It’s my perfectest mem’ry
Of how Christmas could be
I wish peace like this
To my friends and fam’ly

Artlessness of the deal

Just under the wire this year.

The sentiment in this song may or may not be true, but that it can at least be seriously entertained is a soothing balm after the one I had to write four years ago.

He better watch out
He better not cry
He better not pout
I’m telling you why:
Donald Trump is going to jail

He’s making a list
Of who’s done him wrong
The DA’s indictment’s
Equally long
Donald Trump is going to jail

He laundered mobster money
Paid bribes, committed fraud
Grabbed Justice by the pussy like
She was just another broad

He might have had lots
Of friends in the joint
But all of his pardons mean
He’s disappoint
Donald Trump is going to jail.

(Previously.)