The Night Before Christmas Revisited

 

About 35 years ago Annie and I, along with our first few sons, were living on a farm south of Centralia, Missouri, and raising some animals.  All the neighbors were engaged in more traditional farming.  Even though they sometimes teased us about our activities, they were universally accepting of us.

One of them was an older man named B.L. Sims.  He was from Texas and raised purebred Hereford cattle.  He kind of adopted our family and treated me like a son, but that didn’t keep him from teasing me about my strange livestock, especially the goats.

That gave me an idea for a poem.

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What if B.L. resented our choice of livestock?  What if he hated them…and me?  Since it was late in the year, around Christmas, that was a logical theme for my poem.  I changed B.L.’s name for rhyming purposes, and started to write.

Now, with apologies to Clement C. Moore, I give you…

 

The Night Before Christmas

by:

David Scott Matthews I

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all ‘round the farm,

not a creature was stirring, even down at the barn.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while expensive toy tractors chugged ‘round in their heads.

And Momma in her nightgown and I in my shorts,

were both sound asleep; I’d started to snort.

 

When all of a sudden, there arose such a noise,

that Momma yelled, “Shut up!”  She thought ‘twas the boys.

But the curse that I heard couldn’t come from my kids,

so I leaped from the bed to see where it did.

 

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

tripped over my slippers and fell with a crash.

Shoving my head through the storm window screen,

I looked out on a chilly and frightening scene.

In my yard stood a man like an evil old elf,

and I cringed when I saw him in spite of myself.

His cold reddened cheeks, his language, his voice,

soon led me to know it was mean old Jake Royce.

 

The stump of his pipe he’d bit off in his teeth.

The anger encircled his head like a wreath.

He had furious eyes and a round little belly,

that shook when he screamed like a bowl full of jelly.

He yelled, “Get on out here!  She’s back in my shed!

Your darn goat, the white one!  A curse on her head!”

 

Old Mammy, my favorite.  My face colored red.

Pretty face.  Pretty eyes.  “Shoot her!” I said.

And shaking his finger in front of my nose,

he said, “You come get her, or we’ll come to blows!”

 

So I climbed in my truck and turned on the key.

It started, but, “Darn truck!”  I couldn’t get heat.

We spoke not a word, but drove straight to his farm.

I’d get Mammy home quickly, lest she come to harm.

 

In his hay barn we found her, on a stack of his hay,

way up at the top, where she thought she could play.

So I climbed with great care to the top of that heap,

“Come on, good old Mammy, you’re costing me sleep.”

“Oh, Sweetheart, oh Darlin’, oh, Puddin’, my pride.”

I pleaded and begged her.  I may even have cried.

It all was for naught, though.  She began to run ‘round.

But Old Jake was on her when her feet hit the ground.

 

All at once, something ponderous burst through the door,

knocked Jake off the goat and onto the floor.

I exclaimed as he rose, his face flashing red,

“That goat is not mine!  It’s got horns on its head!”

His wife stood in the doorway, her hair white with snow.

“Of course not!” she bellowed.  “Now, you, sir, may go!”

 

“But, Punkin’… “ Jake whined, “that must be his goat!”

She barked, “I got it for Junior, for Christmas, you dolt!”

 

As I started to chuckle, I jogged to my truck,

which was still locked in four-by, so as not to get stuck.

And they heard me exclaim as I drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

And I hope you like your go-o-o-o-oat!

Ho ho ho!”

 

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