Bob Foster's Christmas Poem

By request, just for YOU, the President's verses.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the studios
All the artists were working, chairs stuck to their gluteus.
Christmas bonuses dangled like carrots on sticks.
Artists fell for the gag like a bag full of bricks.

Ev’ry year they fell for the same weary tune
“Help us out of this jam and we’ll pay you next June,”
Said the bosses, investors and corporate suits,
With their parachutes, options and camel hair boots.

Then they’d file for protection with chapter eleven,
Then laugh all the way to the bank with their seven,
Maybe eight bags of cash of a shocking amount
To deposit next week in their Swiss bank account.

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
Pardon me, can’t you see that I must catch my flight
To my ranch in Aruba, then on to Geneva, so
Happy New Year and thanks now I really must go.
Oh, and this marks the end of your health care and bennies.
Thanks for not going union and working for pennies.”

All the artists were stunned by this rotten transgression
Against all their hard work in this noble profession
So they opened their own place and signed with the Guild
Now they all have a pension and health plan for skilled
Union workers and spouses and dependent youth.
So it pays to “Go Union,” now ain’t that the truth?

Read it off your lap top ... in front of the fire ... with your loved ones.

You'll get a warm, toasty feeling inside.