A Dystopian Christmas Eve Satire

'Twas the night before Christmas and all 'cross the nation, not a visa

was stirring, not even probation. The stockings hung limp like outcrops on the vine,

since the pickers were jailed at the freedom fence line. The children were

nestled in ICE-sponsored pens, dreaming of Barbies who loved only Kens,

and mama in her robe from Ivanka's boutique had just hit the Xanax for

one silent week. The moon on the -- of the new-fallen snow gave the luster

of searchlights to chaos below, when out on the lawn there arose such a

clatter, I sprang from by my pillow to tweet, "What's the matter?"