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December 26, 2007

The Night After Christmas

'Twas the night after Christmas', when all through the town,
Not a writer was writing, not even scabs ‘round;
The force majeurs hung all the weak deals with care,
In hopes that reduced costs soon would be there;
The industry nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of smug execs danced in their heads;
And Will Smith in his cash cow, and Nic’s Treasure deuce,
Had just settled in to shake kids’ dollars loose,

When out on the world there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from boredom to see what was the matter.
Away to the web page I flew like a flash,
Tore open the bookmark and went through the trash.

The light on the crest of the new-unspun news
Gave pause when considering which side one might choose,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Benz, and eight tiny men feared,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Strike Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Rupert! now, Sumner! now, Pascal and Lynton!
On, Chernin! on Mayer! on, Iger and Meyer!
To the top of the game! From the top you could fall!
Now shred away! Shred away! Shred away all!"

As dry rot that before new-age delivery flies,
When they balance sheet looks like shit, a victim they spy,
So with DVD flailing, raising the fear,
Will the unions bend over, kiss Strike Nicholas’ rear?

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the street
The nickel and diming of each balance sheet.
As the gross points were paid, and marketing unreal,
Down the street Nicholas came with nary a deal.

He was undressed completely, the emperor nude,
And the writers spent Christmas, thinking, “presents” or “food?”
A bundle of promises flung on his back,
and sounded like George Bush just before The Iraq.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His threats were like Kruschev’s, truth levels did vary!
The struck writers were drawn as quick as a breath,
And soon their rational thinking had left;

The stump of their hist’ry clenched tight in their teeth,
And the smoke it encircled their head like a wreath;
They had broad minds but had often been reamed,
But hoped, this one time, not to bleed when shows streamed.

They screamed power and pride, threatening the Golden Globes,
And I laughed when I saw this, in spite of the dough;
A cry for attention and a twist of his knife,
Would the loss of that evening change anyone’s life?

The sides spoke no words, with many more out of work,
Did they pick the wrong strike date? Doesn’t make bosses less jerks.
The studio web offer would offend any nose,
But as weeks passed, Guild hope up the chimney rose;

It’s time to rule slay, to the teams give a whistle,
Before egos turn small arms fire into missiles.
It is time to exclaim, as the year fades from sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all, back to work."

Posted by poland at December 26, 2007 01:02 AM

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Posted by: Ju-osh at December 26, 2007 07:06 AM

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