Not an activist was stirring, not even a wonk.
The blogs were all posted by the writers with care,
In hopes that St Margaret soon would read theirs.
While visions of dollar signs danced in their heads.
And Chip in his ‘kerchief, and Matt in his cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the internet there arose such a clatter,
Chip sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the computer he flew like a flash,
Tore open the browser to see what had past.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But a bomb throwers blog posts from throughout the year.
With a cadence, so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment it must be Sgt. York.
More rapid than eagles his lines of prose they came,
And he piled on with sentences that put politicians to shame!
“Now Cunnigham! now, Costigan! now, Schied and Bounds!
On, Pompeii! On, Stutzmann! , on Patterson and Hanlon!
To the top of Meg County, to the top of the all posts!
Now dash away York! Dash away! Dash away all!”
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the office
The prancing and pawing of each little minion.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Into the office came St Margaret with a bound.
She was dressed all in fur, from her head to her foot,
And her clothes were all tarnished with blog posts, ashes and soot.
A bundle of cash she had flung on her back,
To hand out to all who would help her keep her campaign on track.
She was miffed and unnerved,
And I knew when I saw her, how her mood got so sour!
A wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Soon let me know Sgt York’s blog would be dead.
And purchased Meg County, Chip, Matt, then turned with a jerk.
And laying her money on the table with care,
made sure Sgt York was no longer there!
She sprang back to her campaign, and to her team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard her exclaim, as she drove out of sight,
“Vote for me now or disappear in the night!”