‘Twas the Night Before Christmas with Earl
by Shelley Sackier (and a little help from Mr. Moore)
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and throughout our old post
Not a creature was stirring, ‘cept our dead plumber ghost.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
To hide the big crack in the masonry there.
The children were splayed on the couch, all serene,
While visions of Family Guy flickered on screen.
And Sir Sackier on his phone, and I on my Mac,
Still slogged on with work that would keep bills paid back.
When out on the lawn there arose such a noise,
I sprang up to shout at some loud redneck boys.
Away to the window, full of anger I flew,
And stared down the barrel of my 22.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
proved Earl and his snowplow were now a “no show.”
When what should I see like a cast of buffoons,
But our Earl on a sled pulled by seven old coons.
With a burly old driver, so mean for no reason,
I saw in a flash Earl’s new work for the season. More rapid than eagles his complaints rumbled out,
While he pointed an old grizzled finger to shout.
“Now Bubba! Now, Merle! Now, Otis and Wyatt!
On, Buford! On, Farley! And Vernon be quiet!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now git goin’! Git goin’! Dammit y’all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
My thoughts flew about asking, “Santa Claus, why?”
So up to the front door the hound dogs they slogged,
With the sled full of moonshine and old Earl in a fog.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the stoop,
The grunting and griping of the grumpy old poop.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Through the front door the old codger came round.
He was dressed all in flannel and coon hunting gear,
And his clothes still held bits of skinning some deer.
A bundle of bottles he had flung on his back,
And he glanced all around for a lawman attack.
His eyes were all wrinkled, his face worn and weathered,
His hands were quite scared and his skin rough and leathered.
January 3, 1863 cover of Harper’s Weekly, one of the first depictions of Santa Claus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
His crooked lips snarled, never smiled like a winner,
And the beard of his chin showed canned hash for his dinner.
Some spit on my polished old floor he did spew,
Reminding me Earl had a mouthful of chew.
He had a broad face that was washed clean of dirt,
But a nose that he wiped on the sleeve of his shirt.
He was chubby and plump, a curmudgeonly churl,
Who never said, “Hi”; his lips wouldn’t curl.
A grunt from his girth and a scratch on his bum
Made me ask why it was Santa gave us the thumb.
He spoke not a word, but grumbled with work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And shuffling past me, he dragged down the hall
The rest of the moonshine toward his next port of call.
He slumped in his sled, to his team gave a holler,
And away the dogs pulled, straining hard at the collar.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“I’m raising my fee for each plow, now good-night!”
~HAPPY HOLIDAYS~
~Shelley
Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery this week (here) and what we’re all talkin’ about down in the pub (here)!
Shelley Sackier 
Awesome Shelley!
Thank you kindly, ma’am. I’d advise you keep to tradition and read Moore’s poetry tomorrow night vs my version. I’d hate to see the look of repulsion on three beautiful faces. Kiss them Happy Christmas for me. 🙂
Shells,
In great admiration, again… of your capturing lyrics, (most amusing by the way), my short response to you this snowy morn is due to trying to assemble all the correct festive marks of the known holidays my daughters have requested to celebrate before retiring back to school. We have Christmas, or Christymas (as all three of them suggest we change the name to reflect love and admiration for their mother…), Kwanzaa, Boxing Day, St. Stephen’s Day (which sadly none of them give credit to their father for), Proclamation day and, thank God… Hanukkah, which ended on the 16th… too many candles in the house the past few weeks. (Reference last article).
Come January, also arrives all three girls birthdays; two on the 20th and one five days later. The fact that what I used to believe was the ultimate celebration (Ground Hogs Day), well, that is no longer of relevance.
Merry hoho and all the blessings to you and yours. I have to go unplug the girls toilet.
P.s. Did Earl show up with a shotgun? You know, that is the norm for the postal carrier here.
Stoshu
The girls have an electric toilet? That is so backwoods Wisconsin. I’m guessing the outhouse doesn’t have heating and this is some new-fangled way to keep their tushes from getting frost buttbite?
Merry hoho to you to, buddy.
Here’s to St. Stoshu’s Day.
😉
Mr Moore is spinning in his grave (with laughter!!) as you’ve once again painted a particularly funny picture with your words.
Merry Christmas Shelley x
And Merry Christmas to you too, PJ. I hope your holiday is filled with more of the same from those furry, four-legged felines of yours. Here’s eggnog in your eye! 😉
Seriously, my girls could just utilize the back woods, or, even off the back porch if during sunset or rise. Our neighbors are definitely out of site and it would save on the holding tank pump out costs. Guess that’s the issue with having little ladies and their Mom; pride and class, I guess. If they were boys, well, you know we’d be saving money. (At least on the toiletries end).
I’m told to strongly consider taking up a relaxing hobby as their soon-to-be teen years with my sweet little ladies will surface sooner than expected. I’ll be contacting Hue Hu Ching to assist me with daily sessions of Lau Tzu; perhaps that could help assist quell any angst.
“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;
Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,
Nor to be seen. My crown is called content:
A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part III
S 😉
Oh, good Lord, you’re a genius, Shelley! The cock-eyed muse of bumpkin poetics and magnificent musical mash. I laughed out loud. I cried too – for the fact that I didn’t read this Christmas week… out loud to my city slicker brood so we can feel glad about having traded gray concrete, steel, and soot for forest, sky, and the lyrical beauty of the Virginia back woods…
Aw, shucks, Josh (insert kicking dust here). That there’s just a little bit of red neck rhyme and bungling balladry. We spit most of that stuff into the wind it’s so worthless. But I sho do ‘preciate the sentiment. I’ve not had no one call me a genius in a awful long time. 🙂
I hope you and your family had a wonderful holiday, and I wish you a very happy 2013. Slainte!