by Sherrye Glaze
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the pad,
Not a hip cat was swinging—
And that’s nowhere, Dad.
The stove was hung up
In that stocking routine,
Like maybe the fat man
Would make the scene.
The kids that fell by
Had just made the street.
I was ready for snoreville—
Man – was I beat!
When there started a rumble
That came on real frantic.
So I opened the window
To figure the panic.
I saw a slick roadster,
That was making fast tracts.
Stooped by eight ponies,
All wearing hat racks.
They parked by the smoke stack
In bunches and clusters,
And Chubby slid down
Coming on like gang busters!
His threads were from kooks-ville
And I had to chuckle,
In front, not in back –
Was his Ivy League buckle!
And the mop on his chin
Had a button down collar.
And with that red nose—
Dad, he looked a baler!
Like he was the squarest
Most absolute.
But let’s face it, who cares
When he left all that loot!