Our Christmas Wishes Poem

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

’Twas the night before Christmas (nay, the “holiday season”…
For using the “C” word is now worse than treason)
The last issue we put out had flown off the rack
And we at the magazine thought we should give back
So we gathered our writers, our editors too
And came up with gifts, from us to you
Our first present’s a big one, for our new County Exec
A justified, bona fide, certified check
To spend on our cop cars, our roads, and our airfield
And to make sure we’re always one step above Fairfield
There’s just one small hitch, and our stomachs are sinking
We sent out the check but did so without thinking
So Rob Astorino we are sure you’ll be dandy
But our gift was made out to Spano comma Andy
We also sent gifts to towns major and minor
Including to Greenburgh and its leader, Paul Feiner
So to you Captain Greenburgh, who likes to acquaint
With every citizen who has a complaint
We give you a couch that was once owned by Freud
So you can spend hours with those who you find are annoyed
But enough with the politicos who babble aloud
We also have gifts for the working-man’s crowd
For those who commute, here’s what we’re thinkin’
A new Tappan Zee to keep ya’ from sinkin’
To the riders on the Hudson and New Haven Lines
Whose choo-choos make them cuckoo (if they get there on time)
We have gifts to relieve you of your traveling pains
Those fancy new train cars they already have in White Plains
Now to all boy and girl Yonkers denizens
We give you a supply of black Sharpie pens
To hand to the players who will sign one and all
Each photo, all bats, and every Rawlings baseball
In that shiny new stadium with the Minor League team
That plays home games only in Mayor Phil’s dreams
Speaking of dreams, we had a gift that hadn’t been seen in ages
“Unattainable!” “Ungettable!” shouted all of the sages
But we ignored all the doubters, busted our humps to the max
And we found it: our gift—a lower property tax!
But as we reached in our bag to present you our gift
We were sprung upon suddenly by a group looking miffed
They stole our last present, and though we hate to pen it
They shouted “Bah Humbug!”—The Grinches of the New York State Senate

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