Barry Smith: Irrelativity
December 22, 2008
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the land,
Every creature was pond’ring supply and demand.
For the looming depression and imminent crash,
Made good men turn to alcohol, morphine and hash.
And so much uncertainty, so much has changed,
It’s what makes tradition’lists like me deranged.
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I’ve oft heard it said, and it might be true, maybe,
The only one who likes change is a wet-diapered baby.
The children were nestled around the TV,
While boxing and bowling and swimming; ala Wii.
As Ma in her sweat pants, and me in my slacks,
Fixate on the market and terror attacks.
When out near the pool there arose such a ruckus
That I ruined my slacks and exclaimed “What the *%#@!?”
I broke out my shotgun and put one in the breech,
And I went for the doorknob, fairly easy to reach.
I flung open the door, yelling “Offa my lawn!’
But whatever had been there was now very gone.
I went back inside, still keyed up and reeling,
When I heard several thuds and saw dust from the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ!” I did curse, and this time with good reason,
(Both as valid reaction and ode to the season.)
When out of our fireplace did emerge someone’s ass,
(Doubly impressive, since our fireplace is gas.)
And my memory bells did suddenly chime,
As I lowered my shotgun, in the St. Nick of time,
It was Santa! Of course! We have nothing to fear,
(Embarrassing, I did the same thing last year.)
He was dressed all in brown, not his usual red,
And his gloves were not mittens, no white hair on his head.
No pipe did he smoke, no sack did he tote,
And his belly was missing his infamous bloat.
“Santa,” I said, “what’s become of your fat?”
“Pilates,” he answered, and left it at that.
He laid out the gifts, all adorned in brown wrapping,
Then I noticed some digital clipboard he’s tapping.
“Sign here, please,” he said, as he gave first a grin,
Then a paperless tablet with a weird inkless pen.
So I put my John Hancock in the obvious place,
Then I looked up and said, “There’s some soot on your face.”
“I’ll get you a washcloth, quick as a leap,
And next year I’ll call up a good chimney sweep.”
But Santa laughed loudly, while I stood perplexed,
He seemed quite delighted for what would come next.
Santa said, “I’ve got news, better swig your Mylanta,
Your president’s a Brother, and now so’s your Santa.
After hundreds of years, there’s some things we can fix,
Euro-centricity’s SO oh oh six.”
“On Rosa! On Malcolm! On Chuck D. and Stokely!
On Condoleezza! (No, just making a jokely.)
On Dr. King, maybe soon you’ll stop dreaming!”
I had no idea what the hell he was screaming.
And he took back his clipboard and high-fived me hard,
Doffed his brown cap and strolled out in my yard.
And I heard him exclaim, as he fired up his van,
“Merry Christmas to all … NOW who’s The Man!?”