‘Tis A Few Weeks ‘Til Christmas

My consumers, er, children, nestle each night snug in their beds,
With craniums full of toy commercials that cause visions of dollar bills to dance in mass marketers’ heads.

And me in my stained sweatpants, with my hair in a cap
I’m too seasonally stressed for even a short winter’s nap.

When out near my lawn the other night, there arose such a clatter
I tripped over some of last year’s toys trying to see what was the matter.

Down hard on the floor, I fell with a crash
Tore a hole in those sweatpants and on my leg was a gash.

The moon on the tops of our inflatable holiday decorations below
Gave a luster of true tackiness to my fake falling snow.

When what to my weary, yet competitive eyes should appear
But a miniature plastic sleigh across the street, surrounded by eight adorable reindeer.

Being erected by my nasty neighbor, in a manner so lively and quick
I knew in a moment that my house’s Yuletide décor needed a good kick.

Slightly more rapid than turtles, my children they came
When I whistled and shouted and called them by name.

Now, Boys! Now, Girl! Now, Bad Dancers and Little Vixen!
On, Retailers’ Dreams! On , Merchandisers’ Minions!

Put more lights on the porch! Put more lights on the walls!
We must impress the neighbors – now dash away all!

As dry leaves that before the manic shoppers’ eyes fly
When they rush to the stores, their panic mounting to the sky.

So the next day, at my bidding, my husband he flew
To our housetop with more lights, and a bad attitude, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of his big, awkward hoof.

As I rushed outside and was turning around
Sliding off the roof, my husband came with a bound.

He was dressed in his grubbies, from his head to his foot
So it didn’t matter that his clothes were tarnished with leaves and a root.

But a bundle of lights he still held on his back
And he looked like a murderer when he gave me that sack.

His eyes, how they glared at me, ‘til I felt very wary
His cheeks, they were burning as red as a cherry.

His not-so-droll mouth told me his anger I did sow
And I feared that his temper, it surely would blow.

A stray piece of grass he picked out of his teeth
Then he brushed off the leaves encircling his head like a wreath.

He had a mad face and his little round belly
It shook when he moaned like a bowl full of jelly.

He’s a bit chubby and plump, usually a right jolly old elf
But I didn’t dare laugh at him then, if I valued myself.

The frown on his face and the twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but he’d clearly given up on this work
With a hand on his sore back, he turned with a jerk.

I started to speak, but he pointed his finger at my nose
And shaking his head, up the stairs to our bedroom he rose.

He fell into bed, to the dog gave a whistle
And the children all scattered, like the down of a thistle.

But I heard them exclaim as they dove out of sight,
“Poor Dad! He’s not going to have a good night.”

© Jackie Papandrew 2007