12/24/2008

Santa's Last Stanza

Some holiday poetry for you:

Santa's Last Stanza




For those who want to follow along:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when Al threw the house
Warming party next door and got drunk, the old souse.
Some stockings were hung by our chimney with care,
Along with their owners, who should not have been there.

The children were wrestled like slugs into beds,
While remains of the sugar-highs drained from their heads.
And Mom in her bathrobe, and me in my socks,
Had just settled down and turned on the box.

When outside I heard what I thought was a gun;
So I sprang from the couch to phone 9-1-1.
Away to the cordless I shakily crawled
Took down the phone, dialed numbers, and called.

Then noticed outside, that the lawn was so bright,
Just like the cops with big spotlights at night.
Then what, to my sleep-addled eyes should appear,
But a fat man on a sled driving eight big reindeer.

The driver looked cunning, and lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he was coming to nick
Our TV and our stuff, or at least he would try,
Then I noticed he turned to his beasties to cry:

"Now, Masher! now, Dachsund! now Pantsuit and Fishing!
On, Stomach! on Stupid! on, Fondle and Pissing!
Onto the porch, and don't hit the wall!
Now for the getaway! Runaway all!"

As children, after breaking stuff, magically fly,
And find every hiding place, ground, sea, and sky,
So up to the top of my house they did scoot,
That old sled, that fat man, and that bundle of loot.

And then, to my fear, I heard on the roof,
The reindeer all grunting, and the chubby old goof.
As I searched for my gun, and was turning around,
Into the fireplace came the man big and round.

He was dressed like a bum, in a parka or two,
And covered in soot right down to his shoe.
A bag full of stolen goods hung on his back,
And he looked wild-eyed, probably hopped-up on crack.

His eyes -- were they bloodshot! and sunken to boot!
His complexion was awful, the crazy old coot!
His mouth was mumbling, and starting to drool,
And the beard of his chin was the color of gruel.

A stub of cigar clamped in teeth somewhat loose
Belched out black smoke round his neck like a noose.
He had a fat face, and a distended belly,
That shook when he coughed and spat phlegm that was smelly.

He was grossly obese, a right squalid old man,
And I gagged when I saw him, in want of a fan.
A squint of his eye and a jerk of his head,
Soon gave me to know I was better off dead.

But then he ignored me, and reached in his sack,
And filled all our stockings and left gifts in a stack.
And putting his finger far up his nose,
He gave me a nod and up the chimney he rose.

They charged off like a scene in a piece by Lord Tennyson,
Except he was driving eight dirty old venison.
I heard him cry out, as he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas, and so on, et cetera. Good night!"

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