‘Twas the night before Strike-mas, and through Hollywood
Every crew member thought, “Oy, this can’t be good.”
The pink slips had been rolling on in for weeks
And news only came out in rumors and leaks.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While parents sought Advil to quiet their heads
I was sitting inside, bundled in winter gear
Having turned down the heat to try remain austere
When out in the alley honked a very loud horn;
‘Twas a Teamster in his five-ton, looking forlorn
I opened my window and shouted “Hey, yo!
It’s after midnight, don’t you have somewhere to go?”
He replied, “It’s all from the Christmas episode,
Fake trees and ornaments, an entire truckload.
Our vendors were shut down, our office laid off;
Every light in town seems to be turned off.”
I asked, “Can’t you take the truck to the studio?”
He said, “Their lot’s so full, it’s got no place to go.”
I said, “Let’s take it to Les Moonves’s house!
He ought to have room, that $30-mil-a-year louse.”
So I pulled on my jeans and I pulled on my boots,
The Teamster and I were now in cahoots.
We charted a course towards Beverly Hills
Ready to get in a last few cheap thrills.
With some inside tipsters and Google Maps Mobile
We took on a task…perhaps somewhat ignoble.
I will leave out the name of the victim selected
But do rest assured, he was quite well connected
We were dressed all in black from our heads to our feet,
To flummox security guards we might meet.
But our worries were baseless, ’twas no one nearby
As the shadow of the five-ton darkened the sky
We pulled up to the gates and claimed a delivery
Our friend didn’t know it was heavy artillery.
We hung a huge banner urging negotiations
And left the truck there, despite protestations.
A silly and juvenile prank, to be sure,
But since when have crew kids ever been mature?
We fled the scene and I whipped out my crackberry
And called us a taxi to someplace more merry:
To the party of one friend who still had a job
And hadn’t turned into an unemployed slob.
We drank to our family and friends and moreover
To the hope this will end before hell freezes over.
Now I end with a plea for a wee bit of reason
Though it sometimes seems such a thing’s out of season
Please stop the name-calling through press releases
And try to begin to pick up the pieces.
For Peace is the one thing we B.T.L.’s seek
And the return of our 70-hour workweek.
Though I’ve fled from L.A. for a Christmas that’s white,
Merry Strike-mas to all, and to all a good night.
Many thanks to the providers of the Online Rhyming Dictionary, without which this would have been even sillier.