’Twas the night before Trump-mas, and all through the Hill,
Not a creature was calm—least of all Chris Van Hollen.
The press releases hung by the podium with care,
In hopes that Donald Trump soon would be there.

The interns were nestled all snug at their desks,
While visions of outrage filled comment-card specs.
And Van Hollen in anger, jaw locked in a clench,
Had just settled in for his nightly full-wrench.

When out on the timeline there arose such a fuss,
He sprang from his chair crying, “THIS ENDS US! IT’S US!”
Away to the cameras he flew like a flash,
Adjusted his tie, practiced fury, then—splash—

He poured out the rage on the fresh fallen news,
Gave pundits a headline, gave anchors their cues.
When what to his bloodshot eyes should appear,
But a Trump-shaped headline—oh joy, Christmas cheer!

With a scowl so dramatic, a cadence so tight,
I knew in a moment: This lasts through the night.
More rapid than eagles his statements they came,
He thundered and shouted and called Trump by name:

“Now Tariffs! Now Tweets! Now Branding and Lies!
Now Courts and now Norms and now Threats to Our Lives!
To the front of the chyron! To the top of the crawl!
Now rage away! Rage away! Rage away all!”

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
So his talking points soared as the decibels climbed.
And then, in a moment, on C-SPAN’s soft glow,
The nation beheld the familiar tableau:

A senator shaking with theatrical might,
Condemning one man deep into the night.
He spoke not of policy, budgets, or plans—
Just Trump, Trump, Trump, with emphatic hand flams.

He clenched and he pointed, he frowned and he sighed,
There was heat in his voice and a spark in his eye.
His cheeks were aflame, his brow deeply creased,
A look not of hatred—of longing increased.

For what is obsession, when all’s said and done,
But thinking of someone from dusk until sun?
When silence won’t do and restraint feels untrue,
When every agenda begins and ends—with you.

At last he exclaimed, as the cameras cut tight,
“Trump is a danger! A peril! A blight!”
Then he paused, caught his breath, and whispered just right:
“…I’ll see you tomorrow. Same rage. Same fight.”

He sprang to his staffers, gave orders with glee,
“Draft me another—no sleep till three!”
But I heard him exclaim as the broadcast cut tight—

“Happy Trump-mas to all, and to all—another angry night.”