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.