A Drunkard's Christmas

A drunkard’s Christmas
© Beth Garry

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house

not a creature was stirring a drink

they had all passed out.

The stockings were still in the basement, I fear

we hoped that the policeman soon would be there

For we were not nestled, nor snug in our beds

but hiding from Mama who'd started to swear.

Oh out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

But we didn't dare look to see what was the matter

For out of the front door someone ran in a dash

and fell on his rear and knocked over the trash.

The officer’s flashlight shown on the snow and it gave

a strange highlight to objects below when

what to my childish young eyes should emerge

but a vision of father who was right on the verge

Of a breakdown or something, I’m never quite sure

But the policeman handcuffed him and opened the door

Of the cruiser while neighbors all laughed, quite sure of themselves

No Santa, no reindeer, no cute little elves.

For children of drinkers would never so dare

as to hope for, or wish for or plan on a share of the Christmas that’s told of

in poems of old

We’d never be hopeful or never be bold

We wished for the best, which meant no one would die, and that presents would land as if dropped from the sky

And some times they came and some times they did not

So that’s what you get when you live with a sot.