‘Twas the night before Kansas Day and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring not even an ornate box turtle.
Carrie Nation’s stocking were hung by the chimney with care
in hopes that the WCTU soon would be there.
The farmers were nestled all snug in the beds
with visions of crop subsidies dancing in their heads.
With Kathleen in her kerchief and Sam in his cap
having just settled down to a bipartisan nap.
The moon on the breast of some hard winter wheat
gave the luster of midday to objects down at my feet.
When what to my wondering eyes should demur
but a miniature sleigh and 8 tiny governors
With a little old driver so lively a sprite
I knew in an instant ‘twas William Allen White.
More rapid than Western Meadowlarks his coursers they came
and whistled and shouted and called them by name
Now Finney, now Hayden,
Now Carlin, now Graves,
On Docking, on Bennett,
On Avery and Landon.
To the top of the porch,
To the top of the wall,
What’s the Matter With Kansas?
Well, nothing at all!
And then in a twinkling I heard in the kitchen
the preening and spinning of each politician.
And as drew in my head and was turning around
down the chimney Mr. White came with a bound.
His wit how it wrinkled, his prose oh so merry.
The Sage of Emporia, read from Goodland to Perry.
He had a broad face and little round hips
that shook when he laughed like a prairie populist
He sang Home on the Range, talked of John Brown’s Body,
Spoke of Bleeding Kansas, Nicodemous and of course Dodge City.
Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
Giving a nod up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his governors shouted anew,
away they flew like chasing fresh tax revenue
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove down the turnpike
Happy Kansas Day to all, ad astera per aspera, and to all good night.
