'Two weeks before Christmas, our troops in Iraq
Marched up near Tikrit and surrounded a shack.
A panel was nestled all snug in the soil;
They dug down with visions of soon striking oil,
When what to their wondering goggles they found,
But a shriveled up dictator, hid in the ground!
With demeanor, deportment, and dwelling terricolous,
They realized not 'twas Saddam Husseinicholas.
You'd think exiled despots would much rather fly
Than surrender to Yanks and to Ma's apple pie,
But from out of his hole, where he could hardly turn 'round,
Up Saddam-a Claus came with a bound!
He had wild hair and beard; in his lap sat a pistol;
And from what they could tell, he was five-sevenths gristle.
He fired not a shot, neither handgun nor rifle,
But gave them an earful (as well as an eyeful):
"I'm Saddam Hussein! I'm Iraq's Head of State!
I've got three-quarters mil, so let's negotiate!"
They examined his passport and checked his ID—
Then did DNA tests to make sure it was he.
In advance of his enemies venting their wrath,
They gave him a shave—and most likely a ba'ath—
Unmasking his moustache and the brows on his eyes,
Revealing the man people love or despise.
Though so far the tyrant has shown no remorse,
Denying he'd had WMD's, of course,
His power will soon be entirely dumped.
Merry Christmas, Iraq—the Ace of Spades has been trumped.
—Anon C. Moore