It was two weeks before Christmas, and all through Romney's house, All the creatures were stirring, even the wireless mouse.
Beat Obama" plans had been hung by the chimney, free of cares, The nomination, they were sure, soon would be theirs.
But on the 24/7 news there arose such a chatter, That Romney couldn't figure out what was the matter.
A portly rapscallion with a sack of Tiffany loot, Was spouting mischievous Untruths -- 'twas the Un-saint, Newt.
"Frontrunner" had once seemed Mitt's real first name.
But then he threw a Grand Old Party -- and nobody came.
Now he's struggling to answer a quiz he can't pass: How did The Gingrich Steal Mitt Romney's Christmas?'