Before Christmas, and Vlad owns the house

for a vindictive night on Twitter.

The reporters on Bingham Island were done for the night,

While the Secret Service at the hotel were about to get tight.

The Coast Guard patrolled for maritime detections

As Kellyanne Conway was through with deflections.

Donald Junior and Eric were all snug in their beds,

While visions of big-game hunting danced in their heads.

Melania sat at the mirror, removing her foundation

While Ivanka looked forward to running the nation.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

Trump sprang from his Tweets to see what was the matter.

Away to the window, he flew like a flash

Half of his hair just fell in the trash.

The moon on the breast of the St. Augustine grass

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects that pass.

When what to Trump’s wondering eyes should appear

But an object that was airborne and suddenly near.

“This is wrong,” he shouted, “get away from my home.

“Don’t you know this is now a big no-fly zone?”

But this was no jet in its last airborne mile

Dumping grit on Mar-a-Lago’s porous roof tile.

It was Putin, Trump could tell, all shirtless and buff

With a sled that was pulled by eight oligarchs gruff.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

“Now Boris! Now Georgi! Now Yakov and Sergei!

“On Pavel! On Viktor! Nikita and Yuri!”

The oligarchs swigged vodka and sang in a chorus

As they nearly collided with the flagpole ginormous.

Then up to the rooftop they landed in a swarm

And Trump started wondering if they came to do harm.

“Hey, Vlad. What’s the deal? You just here to say ‘hi?’ ”

He called out to Putin, who was tapping the Wi-Fi.

The surprise visit made