TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Slightly Revised
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the bunkhouse
Not a cowpoke was stirring, not even ol’ Mouse;
The socks was hung with care so they’d dry,
And also in hopes St. Nick might come by.
The hands were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Jalapeno Jelly fairly danced in
Their heads.
Mamma in her curlers, and me in my BVD’s
Had just settled down to watch some TV;
When out in the yard there arose such a ruckus,
I sprung from the bed to see what the fuss was.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Ripped the blinds off the window, and threw
Open the sash. Well really,
I broke the dang glass, sticking my fool head through,
And gave myself quite a gash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my watering eye should appear.
But a miniature hay wagon, and eight tiny range-steers.
With a little old cowboy so lively and quick,
Sure as my head was bleeding, he must be sick,
Or drunk, or maybe St. Nick!
More rapid than email his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name,
”Now Bubba! Now Baby! Now Red and Slick!
On Rusty! On Bramble! On Donnie and Rick!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the water tower!
Now dash away! Dash away! At maximum power!”
As chickens before a tornado may fly,
When they’re headed for cover, and
Sorta, kinda fly.
So up to the housetop the range-steers they flew,
With a hay-wagon full of toys, and the little drunk too.
And then while I was tinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of 8000 pounds on the hoof.
As I loaded my shotgun and was turning around,
Down the chimney the little drunk came with a bound.
He was dressed to impress from cowboy hat to his boots.
Shiny starched Wranglers, a Stetson, at least 24X felt,
A pearl buttoned shirt, and a big Texas buckle on his size 48 belt,
And two Tony Lamas, one on each foot.
Of course he was smoky, cindered and covered with soot,
Cuz the fire was burnin, and so was his boots.
A bundle of stuff he had on his back,
And I thought he was a burgler, just opening his sack.
I yelled “Stop, Thief,” while aiming my gun,
His eyes – how they twinkled, his dimples how merry,
I wasn’t sure if he was a thief or maybe a fairy.
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.
I figured, “Yep, drunk. Probably gonna pass out,
And fall flat on his back.
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow,
And the beard on his chin was white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held in his teeth, so
I thought, “Nope, not drunk – maybe he’s stoned.”
He had a broad face and a little beer belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby… no, fat. A right jolly old Elf.
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of Mamma
Yelling that she was calling the cops.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, made me wonder if he
Was deranged, or demented. On what had he fed?
Deciding he was harmless, I set the shotgun aside,
And said, “If you’re lost little man, I’ll give you a ride.”
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled up the socks, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose, I knew
Right then, “He must be on Blow!”
He gave me a nod, and up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his hay-wagon, and with a whistle,
Away they all flew, like down on a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”
©TexasFred – 12/1/2007
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