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David Poland

By David Poland poland@moviecitynews.com

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas 2013

ribbon
(as always, with apologies to the author)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ‘wood
Not an exec was sleeping, not even on 20,000 thread count sheets made by virgins;
The movies were sold to the audience with care,
In hopes that 800 million would be there;

The quarterlies were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of rev’nue-streams danced in their heads;
And mamma on Netflix, and I on the fringe,
Had just settled on streaming for a long evening’s binge,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window monitor I clicked like a flash,
Tore open the app and threw in my pass.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen toys,
Gave a lustre of IPOs to objects of boys,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a new funding group with a billion to spare,

With a young studly driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be a dick.
More vapid than drunkards his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Franchise! now, Remake! now Reboot and Proven!
On, Teen Girls! on, Teen Boys! on, CG and Wooden!
To the top of the chart! to the summer and fall!
Now gross away! gross away! gross away all!”

As cash that before the wild Avengers fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the chart top the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of crap, and the help of some Jews —

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The strong-jawed funder being crushed by a hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Real Art came with a bound.

He was dressed all in tatters, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of VHSes flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they winced! his dimples, how scary!
His cheeks were like sinkholes, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the coke on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a joint he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he talked film, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was skinny and ill, a once jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all media platforms; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose, (SNORT)
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to full strength, to the world gave a whistle,
And reminded us that for greatness, away we must chisel.
Then I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Stop whining, you punks, see a great movie tonight!”

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