By Pat Cashman

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and it seems quite absurd
That somebody once decided that ‘twas’ was a word.

But that’s not the point, so let me get back to my tale
While I knock back a few pints of gluten-free ale.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Playstations danced in their heads;

And mamma in a teddy, and I in the nude,
And suddenly this poem has gotten quite lewd.

When down on the porch there came such a knocking,
I threw on my pants and started fast walking.

Away to the front door I boldly went lopin’,
I reached for the knob and threw the door open.

On the porch stood an old guy in a suit and a beard,
He was sweaty and puffin’ and seemed kinda weird.

But his face was kindly and looked very sensitive,
I figured he might be an Amway representative.

But the red garish wardrobe and belly so thick,
Told me instead that this dude was Saint Nick.

But he lingered right there and seemed in no hurry,
Sorta looked like a bearded Mayor Ed Murray.

He spoke and said, “I don’t mean to be a pest;
But would you mind if I came in and took a short rest?

I’m so tired and beat---and can’t deliver another toy.”
Then he shuffled right in, plopped onto a La-Z-Boy;

He moved scarcely a muscle, was purely inertia,
Reminded me somewhat of that drill called Big Bertha.

Nick explained that the sleigh ride had got him so pooped,
He’d decided to land the thing near my front stoop.

He said the elves had refused to help him much further,
Since they unionized back in early November.

He said, “Things used to be easy and fantastic;
As I’d deliver toys everywhere in a bag of strong plastic;

But now in order to stay in Seattle’s good favor,
My compliant Santa sack has to be cloth or paper.”

I felt bad for the guy; he looked so stressed out;
He looked in my eye, “Would you finish my route?”

The notion at first seemed to me so insane.
It was like Sleep Country becoming Sleep Train.

He said, “This area’s my last stop on the planet;
Just six houses left and a woman named Janet.”

His only warning was “Please don’t be reckless;
I’m desperate or I wouldn’t ask someone so feckless.”

He seemed to consider the risks with a frown,
But I said, “No sweat Santa, I won’t let you down.”

Quickly leaping up I ran out like a dervish,
The eight tiny reindeer all looked pretty nervous.

I sat in the sleigh and quick-cracked the whip;
Donner said, “You do that again and get a fat lip.”

The craft lifted off so swift and so super,
It looked like a deer-powered flying sleigh Uber.

We made a delivery, down the chimney I went,
But the burn ban had been lifted---so back up I went.

When we were finishing up and heading right back,
I took an awkward sharp turn, the sleigh started to tack.

We were whirling quite wildly, beginning to veer,
Just me and the sleigh---and eight screaming reindeer.

We all hurtled downward at an angle most steep;
We clunked down on Alki in a great crashing heap.

Later, a bobsled repair place was busily fixin’,
The reindeer were fine ‘cept for a boo-boo on Vixen.

Before long the sleigh was reasonably functional,
Insurance covered it all, minus deductible.

But Santa would not speak to me, angry it seemed,
He gave me a look that said he was steamed.

He sat in the beat-up sleigh for his long return journey,
Turned and said, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

And I heard him exclaim as he flew through the sky,
“Merry Christmas to all---except for that guy!”

pat@patcashman.com Pat can be seen on the sketch show “Up Late NW” airing Saturdays and Sundays on KING 5 and throughout Washington and Oregon. He also co-hosts a weekly on-line talk show: www.Peculiarpodcast.com