‘Twas the night before Tuesday, when all through the park
Not a protester was stirring, the mood was quite stark;
The signs of injustice were hung by the entrance with flare,
In hopes that St. Wall Street would soon give a care;
The American citizens were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of financial security danced in their heads;
And I in my ‘kerchief, still feeling misled,
Had just settled down for a long fight ahead,
When out on the avenue there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bag to see what was the matter.
Away to the corner I flew like a flash,
Tore open the tent flaps and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, on what do my weary eyes should make a stop,
But a miniature SWAT team, and eight tiny street cops,
With an order from the Mayor, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment, it was making me sick.
More rapid than eagles their tear gas did aim,
And they whistled, and shouted, and called us bad names;
“Now, Crasher! now, Vagrant! now, Freeloader and Citizen!
On, Vets! on Mothers! on Fathers and Children!
Don’t dare you fight back! Hands up on the wall!
Now go away! go away! go away all!
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
The press had shown up, mounted in the sky,
So close up the air space the government said,
With the van full of citizens, others had fled.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the twitter
The yells and the rants saying don’t think we’re quitters.
As I took out my phone and was turning around,
Through the park the police came with a bound.
He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of zip ties he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a man following orders to attack.
His eyes - couldn’t see ‘em! His dimples? Who cares!
His tear gas was flying, his baton and his flares!
His droll little mouth was vicious and mean,
And the beard of his chin was short and was clean;
The stump of a bat he held tight in his hand,
And the words this implied were sung far over the land;
We want this over, no reports on the telly,
That hurt, when he threw us down on our belly.
He was doing his job, a right jolly old cop,
And I cried when I saw him, I couldn’t just stop;
We’re doing this for you, your pension and all,
He didn’t let up and my hopes began to fall;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
And cleared out the park; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the avenue they rose;
They pushed through reporters, all wanting to see,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight,
“Don’t Use Your Freedoms, And Fight For Fair Rights.”