Wednesday, December 17, 2014

‘Twas the Redneck Night Before Christmas

and all through the house,
not a critter was stirring,
not even the louse.
He had drunk all the eggnog and was completely soused
Granny hung her ripped stockings by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nick would take the hint and give her a new pair.
The kids were all asleep in their beds
with visions of moonshine dancing in their heads.
They had tried some of their dads, and while it had quite a bite,
it sure helped keep them warm that cold Christmas night.
Mama, weary, her bones all stiff,
with the cat in her lap,
had just settled on the couch for a long overdue nap.
When up on the roof there came such a clatter
even dad woke up and asked, “What’s the matter?”
Mama could hardly hear him over the crash.
She wasn’t sure the roof would last.
“Why don’t you go look and then you’ll know,”
She said and tried not to let the fear show.
He screamed and said, “Come over here,
and bring my gun, there’s eight deer!”
She ran over right quick.
She started to hand dad the gun and then saw St. Nick!
Faster than a bullet they came.
St. Nick burped and then called them by name.
“Now, Thrasher! Now, Sampson! Jagger and Wiccan!
On, Homer! On, Stupid! Dandruff and Mitten!”
“Pick up the speed or the sleigh’s gonna stall!
Faster! Faster! Before we fall!”
Mama held her breath and watched the sky.
Knowing that St. Nick was about to die.
You could tell St. Nick had had a drink or two.
But the deer seemed to know what to do.
It wasn’t long until there was more noise on the roof.
They listened hard and counted each hoof.
They closed the door to drown out the sound.
St. Nick was in the house by the time they turned around.
He was dressed all in red, from his head to his foot.
Though they didn’t have a fireplace, he was covered in soot.
He had a huge red backpack.
Mama was disappointed that it wasn’t a sack.
His eyes were bloodshot and a little teary.
His face was red as a berry.
“He’s drunk,” Dad whispered low.
Mama figured he would certainly know.
St. Nick had a joint clamped tight between his teeth,
and around his neck he wore a wreath.
It looked very old and smelly,
and hung all the way to his beer belly.
He was staggering so much he had to hold on to a shelf.
Mama tried not to laugh but couldn’t help herself.
He mumbled something, and shook his head.
Mama was pretty sure she didn’t want to know what he said.
When steady enough, he went to work.
He filled all the stockings except mama’s… the jerk.
Pretending to scratch, he put his middle finger beside his nose,
but mama was not fooled, being no stranger to that pose.
He walked out the door and gave a whistle.
The deer shot off the roof like a missile.
They heard him yell as he flew out of sight,
“Home, y’all, it’s been one hell of a night.”