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(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

‘Twas the night before the debate, when all thru’ the house, 

Randi was stirring the Democratic candidates’ house.

The strike signs were hung ‘ron the country with care, 

In hopes that Ms. Warren soon would be there.

The union agitators were all snug in their red,

While visions of new contracts danc’d in their heads.

And Bernie in his kerchief, and Joe in his shawl, 

Had just settled in for a 40 minute long explanation of Medicare for all.

When out in the Free Speech zone there arose such a clatter,

The media sprang from impeachment coverage to see what was the matter.

Away to the cameras the journalists flew like a flash,

Turned on the microphones and called Dana Bash.

The moon on the park where protestors flow,

Gave a lustre of hope to the people made low.

When what to Ms. Klobuchar’s wondering eyes should appear,

But mighty charter school parents marching so near.

With zeal in their eyes, moving lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment, Mayor Pete would be sick.

More rapid than unions the charter advocates came,

Senator Bennet took the time to tell them his name. 

Now Castro! Now Gabbard! Now Steyer and Williamson!

All missed the chance to just try and listen-some.

To the podiums, to the comfy chairs, candidates all.

Now hustling, bustling and trampling all.

As children dream of educational wings to fly, 

Adults create bureaucracies as an obstacle to the sky.

So to Los Angeles the candidates they flew,

With sharpened tongues to get union stew. 

And then came a twinkling I heard from New J,

It was he who was once in the choice fray.

As I cleared my head and was turning around,

Through the door Senator Booker came with a bound.

He was dressed quite impeccably, from his head to his feet,

Even when Mayor he looked incredibly neat.

A bundle of speeches was flung on his back, 

And he looked just like an old political hack.

His eyes, how beady, his forehead like a beagle,

His cheeks like a bassett, his bald head like an eagle.

His droll little mouth spouted words like a troll,

And his teeth, how they glistened as white as the snow.

The charter school supporters he once had at his feet,

And great schools that placed on his head a victor’s wreath.

He was sadly two-faced, but slim around the belly.

And a spine that was probably made from nothing but jelly.

Like Warren, he had become a right smug politician,

Hoping to fill his coffers with union donations.

A wink of their eyes, and a twist of position,

Soon told the children they no longer cared for their mission.

They had gone back on their words, the prize ever near,

And filled up their PACs, wow, what a bum steer! 

And laying his past as a charter champion aside,

With a nod to being the union’s new bride,

Booker sprang to his limo and gave his advance team a whistle,

And away they all flew, like a Patriot missile.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

“Suffer the kids in charter schools, Keep their parents out of sight!”.