Fred Smith usually write a Christmas poem but this year he decided to write an election poem.

Here it is:

The days are swift passing until it’s December

But Christmas will dawn on the 5th of November.

Two months ‘fore Election Day and throughout the land

Joy is a-stirring, hopeful relief near at hand.

Just one month ago, there was a sense of despair.

Optimism was fading and breathing foul air.

Then Biden withdrew; ‘twas all very sudden.  

Harris stepped up, and light started to flood in.

Cheerful Kamala smiled without missing a beat,

Catching a bone-spurred bully off guard on flat feet

She’s a Black-Asian woman who married a Jew.

See your priest or your rabbi if that troubles you.

So, Karma took over when Joe lost the debate;

Poetic justice, at last, dictating Trump’s fate. 

Running strong against Donald whose gospel is hate

Whose bloody rage keeps him in a constant red state.

She picked as her running mate, Governor Walz,

A true everyman, who responds to all calls.

When fast off they flew to swing states and rallied,

As Trump more and more scowled and dilly dallied.

He who had chosen JD Vance as his veep

Whose loyalty outweighed how much he’s a creep.

A wide-eyed senator dreaming on his love couch;

A perfect match partner for the impious grouch.

And as Grumpy campaigns with his sidekick Goofy,

This ragged tag team has been double down doofy.

Years back, there were signs Trump was non compos mentis,

Strutting his ruthlessness skills on the Apprentice,

Firing everyone at his ultimate whim

With unchecked power reserved only to him.

And twenty years ere that reality show

Wayne Barrett mapped the deets of Donald’s M.O.,

His inherent racism, the shield of Roy Cohn,

Dirty dealing and cheating, this all was well known.

This self-proclaimed titan whose casinos went bust;

A big entrepreneur no contractor could trust.

Now Trump’s mainly consumed by the size of each crowd,

Ranting in blue whale-ish suits that fit like a shroud.

With MAGA fanatics clinging to every word,

His saga of falsehoods far beyond the absurd.

Carrot-faced, his puss locked in a fixed grimace,

Stewing up gripes in a big steamy tsimmes

That he feeds to his base in a crock full of lies,

Which he always refills with unending supplies:

About how he built walls to bar immigration

That’s turning us into a third world nation.

And why it made sense to oppose vaccination,

Or how he lowered our high rate of inflation.

He has no policies, just makes rash decisions,

Blurting out confused, head-spinning revisions.

So, let’s figure out where he stands on abortions,

As he bends yes – no – maybe into contortions.

And he’s only become more misogynistic

With a baseline temper that starts at ballistic.

Who’s used the court system to dodge Judgment Day.

But like Yertle, he’s doomed to crash down the same way.

As Karismatic Harris along with the Coach

Continue to roll out, facing little reproach.

While last week’s convention put more wind in their sails,

And Felonious Trump stares at his choice of jails.

As he increasingly takes his roadshow on tour,

We get a chance to recount each faux pas du jour.

Effronteries and distractions almost non-stop:

Those losers at Arlington now serve as a prop;

And will he face Harris; will his mike be open;

And what might he say when he is gropin’?

But we must be careful.  Victory’s not in the bag

With twisted judges flying the upside-down flag,

Abetting Trump, concocting legal protections

Re the insurrection and stealing elections.

Yet there’s one Harris Poll that counts most of all,

When people show up to cast ballots this fall,

And tell Donald Trump where to go with his fury.

Voters will reach the verdict. We are the jury. 

Fred Smith retired from the New York City public school system

as an administrative analyst. His occasional poems and op-eds

have appeared in the Daily News and other newspapers.