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Old as dirt. Twice as gritty.

Week after Christmas

'Twas the week after Christmas, and all through the cabin,
Each creature was tired, and all of them crabbin’.
 
The stockings lay savaged on the ground at my feet,
Everything gone, down to the last treat.
 
The grandson wasn’t sleeping all snug in his bed,
He was running around, pointing a gun at my head.
 
With Jim at his iPod, while I dodged the boy,
We were settling down with some semblance of joy.
 
Then out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I thought about rising, but felt sure it didn’t matter.
 
But just to be safe, I pulled down the shade,
And looked for a weapon, in case of a raid.
 
The moon on the breast of the brown melting snow,
Made me curse for winter to pack up and go.
 
When what to my old weary eyes should appear,
But a miniature taxi, and no tiny reindeer.
 
With a little rider, looking so scary,
I knew in a moment he was no tooth fairy.
 
More rabid than Cujo that little man came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd me by name.
 
"Ha ha! Jo, ha ha! Jim, ha ha! Woe to you all!
"Now that I’m here, prepare for a fall!
 
"Come out of the house! Back away from that gun!
"Now weep away! Weep away! And don’t try to run!"
 
For as leaves before wild hurricanes fly,
When creditor meets banker, it can make you cry.
 
And so now it had come, the moment I’d dreaded,
All the spending I’d done, to perdition I’m headed.
 
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The sorting of invoices, the awful proof.
 
As I covered my head, and was running to hide,
In the door came my banker, with a smile so snide.
 
He was dress’d all in black, from his head to his foot,
As befitted his job, the Bah Humbug Mook.
 
And his clothes were so grim, so off-the-rack,
A bundle of bills was flung on his back,
And he looked like a troll ready to attack.
 
His eyes - how they glowered! his nose was so hairy,
His cheeks were so doughy, his smile so not merry.
 
His fingers were twitchy, so eager to write,
And the numbers he was adding were quite a sight.
 
The tip of his pen he idly tapped on a mole.
And the black ink that leaked matched the colour of his soul.
 
He had a thin face, and short greasy hair,
That stood up when he roared, like a grizzly bear.
 
He held out our bills, to strip away our wealth,
And I wept when I saw them in spite of myself.
 
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had a good deal to dread.
 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Posting bills from December, then turn'd with a jerk,
 
And holding middle finger high up at me,
And giving a nod, he laughed with glee.
 
He sprung to his taxi, to the driver gave a whistle,
And away the bastard flew, like the prickles of a thistle.
 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Next year spend more wisely, then I won’t bite.”
 


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About the Author

This bio was written by Jo Slade. As you can see she has written about herself in the third person. What normal person would do that? They just wouldn't. Who knows how many other persons might be involved in this thing, a second person? Another third? I worry about it. I - she - we - can't even keep it straight, this paragraph is a damn mess, there are persons all over the place. Round 'em up and shoot 'em. That's what I'd do, and by golly I think that's what Jo Slade would do as well.

Biographic nutshell: Jo has been messing around with words for a long time. Sometimes she'll just say words instead of writing them, it saves on paper.

This column: The columns that will appear here are of a highly serious and scholarly nature, therefore it is advised that you keep a dictionary and ponderous thoughts nearby.

If, after reading the column, you find yourself tossing and turning at night, burning with the need to email me, just do it. I answer to [email protected]




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The views expressed are strictly those of the author and not necessarily those of Castanet. Castanet presents its columns "as is" and does not warrant the contents.

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