'Twas the strike before Christmas, when all through Hollywood
Not a creature was writing, and that is not good;
Studio executives hung in their dungeons with care,
In hopes that their Dominatrix soon would be there;
The big stars were nestled in each other's large beds,
While visions of Oscars danced in their heads;
TV was all reruns or reality show crap,
And the audience gave up for a long winter's nap,
When out on the street I heard a terrible clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Pulling up my pajamas to cover my ass.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a stretch limousine ran over my plastic reindeer,
With a big passenger, both well-dressed and slick,
I knew in a moment it must be Counter-comma-Nick.
More rapid than eagles the other moguls they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Lynton! Now, Meyer! Now, Brad Grey and Chernin!
On, Zucker! On Sloan! On, Iger and Moonves!
To the top of the heap! To the top of them all!
Throw cash away! Cash away! Cash away all!"
As critics from a junket preview do fly,
To escape a bad movie just mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the moguls they flew,
With the limo of bad contracts, and Counter, Nicholas too.
And then, in a scurrying, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each executive hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Counter, Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in gold, from his head to his shoes,
And his paycheck was massive despite bad box-office news;
A net full of profits he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a burglar just opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His botoxed dimples how merry!
His suit was hand tailored, his contract demands scary!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
But Variety says he's as white as the snow;
Peter Bart's leash he held tight in his teeth,
And it encircled Bart's neck just like a wreath;
He had a shrewd face and a personal trainer toned belly,
Hollywood shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was hard and was tough, and not jolly old elf,
But I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon told me that I had everything to dread;
He spoke not a word, even though that was his work,
And left negotiations; and writers called him a jerk,
And giving writers the finger & thumbing his nose,
And refused to pay them for online downloads;
He sprang to his limo, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew treating writers like gristle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-strike!"
Not a creature was writing, and that is not good;
Studio executives hung in their dungeons with care,
In hopes that their Dominatrix soon would be there;
The big stars were nestled in each other's large beds,
While visions of Oscars danced in their heads;
TV was all reruns or reality show crap,
And the audience gave up for a long winter's nap,
When out on the street I heard a terrible clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Pulling up my pajamas to cover my ass.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a stretch limousine ran over my plastic reindeer,
With a big passenger, both well-dressed and slick,
I knew in a moment it must be Counter-comma-Nick.
More rapid than eagles the other moguls they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Lynton! Now, Meyer! Now, Brad Grey and Chernin!
On, Zucker! On Sloan! On, Iger and Moonves!
To the top of the heap! To the top of them all!
Throw cash away! Cash away! Cash away all!"
As critics from a junket preview do fly,
To escape a bad movie just mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the moguls they flew,
With the limo of bad contracts, and Counter, Nicholas too.
And then, in a scurrying, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each executive hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Counter, Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in gold, from his head to his shoes,
And his paycheck was massive despite bad box-office news;
A net full of profits he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a burglar just opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His botoxed dimples how merry!
His suit was hand tailored, his contract demands scary!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
But Variety says he's as white as the snow;
Peter Bart's leash he held tight in his teeth,
And it encircled Bart's neck just like a wreath;
He had a shrewd face and a personal trainer toned belly,
Hollywood shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was hard and was tough, and not jolly old elf,
But I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon told me that I had everything to dread;
He spoke not a word, even though that was his work,
And left negotiations; and writers called him a jerk,
And giving writers the finger & thumbing his nose,
And refused to pay them for online downloads;
He sprang to his limo, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew treating writers like gristle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-strike!"
No comments:
Post a Comment