[Nhcoll-l] Seasonal Selection

[John E Simmons]

Yep... again.

*Look! Up in the sky! It’s a lien! It’s a tort! It’s a fraud!*

(St. Nick takes the law into his own furry gloves)



T’was the night before Christmas, but, all through the halls,

Not a creature was stirring, and I was taking no calls.

Not a creature was out or in any way visible;

Nothing was charming, amusing, or risible.

The silence was eerie, not right for the season,

But, alas and alack, sadly, I knew the reason.

Nothing was there, all throughout the museum:

No things were stored where you just couldn’t see ‘em.

The galleries were closed, the museum dispossessioned,

Because all the collections had been deaccessioned.

Of objects and specimens we were completely bereft

Not a jot or a tittle of either was left.

The Board had decided they needed more cash,

So they used the collections to build up their stash.

Too much Antiques Roadshow had warped the big guys,

And visions of loot flashed and danced in their eyes.

For the Director, a limo; for Trustees, a new lounge,

So they wheedled and cadged whate’er they could scrounge.

They drained the endowments, raised the price of admission,

And hauled off collections, no hint of contrition.

All had been crated and taken away

With an auction at Sotheby’s planned the next day.

The curators nestled aghast in the cases,

Huddled in Ethafoam, despair on their faces.

Away to the window, I slouched in a slump,

Tore open the shutters, and got ready to jump,

When I saw a strange sight, one that made my eyes jerk―

A miniature sleigh pulled by eight tiny law clerks.

With a sharp-suited driver, so lively and quick--

Could this possibly our good buddy St. Nick?

More rapid than summons, his coursers they came

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

“Now Amicus, Docket, now Tort and Opinion,

On De Facto, on Cy Pres, on Warrant and Minyan!

To the top of the roof! To the museum’s big wall!

Now file away, file away, file away all!”

And then in a twinkling I heard a rustling of sheafs

As the beady-eyed law clerks reshuffled their briefs.

As I drew in my head and climbed down from the sill,

Through the fume hood he popped. He knows that trick, still.

But this was not jovial St. Nick known of old―

This was St. Nick, J.D., Esq., lo and behold!

His eyes, how they glittered, as he asked me for documents

Then turned to his clerks and said, “Earn your emoluments!”

With a flurry of lawbooks they searched Claus’s clauses,

Codes of ethics, and policies, with scarce any pauses.

There were felonies, errors, all kinds of offenses,

Misdemeanors aplenty, in all possible senses.

Although they grumbled and groused and then cussed,

The Trustees had violated the museum’s public trust.

As the papers piled up and then soared to the sky,

Nick, Esq., gave the big guys the cold legal eye.

He spoke not a word, but they knew they’d been jerks,

So they pulled out their wallets and started to work[1] <#_ftn1>.

With a flick of a card, and a beep of a phone,

Object by object, the collections came home.

The shelves were restocked, the exhibits were finished,

And, thanks to credit cards, the endowment replenished.

The big guys were notably sheepish and nervous

As we rounded them up for community service.

Nick signaled his clerks to gather around

And 1:1 ethanol:eggnog was downed.

Then raising a finger (yes, the one you suppose)

And giving a nod, up the fume hood they rose.

Nick sprang to the limo, to his clerks gave a tweet,

And away they all flew just like scattered spreadsheets.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere they drove out of sight,

“Remember your duty to do what is right.

Some things are ethical, others legit,

But take our collections? You’ll end up with a writ.”



--*John Simmons and Sally Shelton are still waiting for the statute of
limitations on their poetic license to expire*.

------------------------------

[1] <#_ftnref1> Yes, they had to give statements. When all’s said and done,

We know affidavit is better than none.
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