’Twas the night before Sunday, when all through the nation
The TVs get tuned to the NBC station;
The Tivos were wired and programmed with care,
In hopes Kate McKinnon would soon be on air.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Halloween danced in their heads;
“They’re asleep!” said Lorne Michaels. “Each girl and each boy!
Let’s broadcast a show only kids could enjoy!”
“We’ll take a bad sketch people enjoyed ironically,
And animate it, cheaply and electronically!”
“But why?” asked the writers. “That doesn’t sound funny.”
Lorne Michaels assured them they’d make lots of money.
“Besides,” Michaels asked, “Why waste jokes on our viewers?
You can tell from the smell they were raised in the sewers.
We spend hours perfecting our punch lines like chumps,
Then they all bark like seals watching Baldwin play Trump.”
“Controversy, you recall, gets us yelled at online.
Aren’t you tired of throwing your pearls before swine?
No, what they deserve—these children, these bumpkins—
Is a Halloween special with David S. Pumpkins!”
“Now, Tom Hanks! now, Dinklage! now, low-rent cartoonists!
On, Bobby! on, Mikey! on, rank opportunists!
Who cares if it’s dumb or the plot is unsturdy?
If they liked it at five, then they’ll love it at thirty!
The writers signed on and the talent was willing,
Hanks worked for ten minutes and still got top billing.
They carefully crafted a seasonal parable,
And just like they planned it, the whole thing was terrible.
So why make a special that’s funny as cancer?
Lorne Michaels was asked, but Lorne Michaels won’t answer.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“I won’t rest till I’ve ruined your Saturday night!”
