T’was six days before Christmas and all through our home,
It was time to sit down and write this poem.
If you’ve followed this column over the years,
You’ve got a good idea of what you will hear … . Oh yeah, well, me too: Like the boatload of emails that people will send saying I’m wrong for doing the same old shtick for the past 18 years by ripping off Clement C. Moore and maligning his classic story.
… Wait a second, hold on. I’m sorry, that doesn’t happen, much. I got carried away. Let’s start over.
OK, wow, the holidays always put me on edge. I apologize for the outburst. All right, let’s go again.
• • •
Twas six days before Christmas blah, blah, blah — look, why don’t you just read what I wrote above, and after the words “you will hear,” come back and we’ll just pick it up from there. No need to repeat myself. OK?
What? You want to hear the whole thing uninterrupted? Fine. It’s your call. I’ll start over. Take 3 …
• • •
‘Twas six days before Christmas and all through our home,
It was time to sit down and write this dumb — yes, dumb — poem
If you’ve followed this column over the years,
You’ve got a good idea of what you will hear. (Happy?)
I’ll drone on and on and think this is clever,
But on the very next page, there’s another one — better.
Nonetheless, let’s go, let’s get this thing lit,
I’m feeling good now, I’ll ignore the bad; it’s not like a lot of people send me negative emails, it’s just my natural paranoia that keeps my anxiety at a higher level. Sometimes I can’t remember what I’m doing. I lose focus and drift off, on to another topic. Actually, I’ve always been like that. And the weird part? Suddenly, I’ll jump back into what I was previously doing, not even realizing I went astray.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
But dunno why, the kids weren’t there,
The children had grown up and gone their own ways,
With bills of their own and mortgages to pay,
When out on the lawn, there rose such a clamor,
It scared me enough to pick up a hammer,
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Tripped on a throw rug and fell on my …. as … I was mentioning my failure to stay fixed on a topic, I’m prone to change the subject when I can’t think of a rhyme, other than some vulgar word that pops into my head. But that’s just me. That’s how I roll.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the neighbor’s always-at-the-curb trash can a particular glow,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
An Amazon truck, it was that time of the year,
With a little old driver, so focused and rushed,
Stepping gingerly and carefully, over the icy-cold slush.
Just what I needed, like my inbox was torched,
Another picture coming, of our snow-covered porch,
More rapid than eagles, the packages, they came
Presents for sure, they all seemed the same,
Please no more socks that scratch and itch,
They can be be such a pain … a real son-of-a … which reminds me of my poor wife and her susceptibility to poison ivy. I wish I could buy her a Christmas present, to cure her of the irritation she gets every spring and summer from that vile weed. (“Vile weed” — Newman.) Just saying.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The pitter-patter of chipmunks, so daintily aloof,
One is OK — but if several amass
I’ll get a wall-climbing cat and fix their rodent … as I was saying, every now and then, rhymes are hard to come by. Seriously, have you ever tried coming up with one for “porch”? Know what I’m sayin’? (You looked back, didn’t you?)
I turned to my wife, my curiosity unmasked,
“Who will be here on Christmas?” I anxiously asked
Kathie winked and named who’d make the scene,
“Eric, Paul, Melissa, Dominic and Jeanne,
“And, of course, we’ve got Owen, Emma and Jack.
Tyler, and Madison … they’re all on track.”
The holidays are a time of precious deep thoughts,
And it doesn’t really matter how much that you bought,
You can give stuff you got from online and stores,
But when you give from the heart, it always means more.
So get fired up, and join our pep-rally
Merry Christmas to all — and that’s straight from the Valley.