Twas the Day After Christmas
(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,
The creatures of habit were stirring, including the computer mouse.
The stockings were torn from the chimney 'cause the kids didn't care,
After all, St. Nicholas had already been there.
The children were wrestling and piledriving each other in bed,
While visions of sugar-induced school vacation days danced in their heads.
And mamma headed back to the mall to return Uncle Ned's singing fish cap,
While I try to settle my brain with a long sip of Pab — Blue Ribbon that is.
When out on the front lawn there arose such a clatter,
I looked up from the Odor Eaters bowl game to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I shuffled like I had a rash,
Pried open the shutters and dusted cookie crumbs off my stubble mustache.
The sun on the crust of the blackened banks of snow,
Gave the illusion of a mild Michigan winter to objects below.
When, what to my sleep-deprived eyes should appear,
But a brake-squealing garbage truck; an eight cylinder job stuck in second gear.
With a big ol' driver, so livid and
temperament quick,
I knew in a moment this ain't St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his curses they came,
And he vexed and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now *%&%# Boxes! now, @!&*$ Bows! now *&^#@ Tinsel and %$#@ Gift Wrap!
On, %*&^$ To and From Tags! on, ?%*#@^ Ham Grizzle! on *&^%$ Packing Peanuts and *&#@^$% Crap!
To the top of the compactor! To the top of the landfill haul!
Now trash away! Trash away! Trash away all!”
As discarded sale receipts that before the wild after-Christmas sales fly,
When they meet with a stampeding crowd, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the curses they flew,
As the garbage truck full of Christmas Past idled, and ain't St. Nicholas stew.
And then, in a inkling, I remembered under the garage roof,
Lay one last garbage bag to the end of the driveway I still had to hoof.
As I lowered my head, and sheepishly brought it around,
Down off the truck ain't St. Nicholas came with a frown.
He was dressed all in Carhartts, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with axle grease and carburetor soot.
A broken bag of lead toy parts and dirty diapers he had stuck on his back,
And he looked perturbed, like he could just crack.
His eyes-how they narrowed! His expression how scary!
His cheeks were like blown hydraulic hoses, his pox nose like the pit of a cherry!
His troll little mouth was drawn up like dried out Play-Doh,
And the beard on his chin was as patchy as the snow.
The clump of nicotine gum he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke out of his ears
encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a sneer on his face and a six-pack beer belly,
That shook when he laughed to himself, like a jarfull of botulism-laced jelly!
He was horizontally challenged, but neither a holly or jolly old elf,
But I smiled when he saw me, in spite of potential great bodily harm to myself!
A squint of his eye and a neck-cracking twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And took the last bag, with a look like 'you jerk.'
And laying a one-finger salute aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, off went the bag to decompose!
He sprang to his truck, to a lady walking by gave a wolf whistle,
And then away he flew like a rubbish-seeking missile.
But I heard his exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
"You call this a tip! I hope you can sleep at night!”
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com