This poem went over like the proverbial lead balloon for the most part, except for a couple of comments. It has a lot of views, though, so quite a few people read it. I wrote it as a satire (darkly as through a mirror) on the secular fictional characters that have overtaken the celebration of our religious holidays, but apparently it has offended some, even though I have taken it so far over the top that I don't know how it can be taken seriously. Or perhaps I have offended the nednecks, in which case I tender my apologies to you with a plea for mitigation in that I needed a foil for my satire's plot, so that's why I threw you under the bus. Alternatively, you actually believe in these characters, in which case fuggedaboutit!
White Trash Santa
T'were the night after Christmas, and the house wuz all dark
Not much money for 'lectric in the ol' trailer park
Ma waitin' tables at the club on the base
Just me and my sisters alone in the place
A big ol' blue norther, t'were a hard winter storm
We's all snuggled up close, jist tryin' ta stay warm
The trailer's as cold as that monkey of brass
Cause they come out that mornin' and turnt off the gas
I shore kinda hated to get out of that bed
But ol' Mother Nature made me git up, instead
I'd gotta go out if I wanted a leak
'Cause the toilet had bin all plugged up fer a week
Outside it 'peered warmer, which wuz a suprise
As I peed on the tree, sumpin lit up the skies
Them lights shined down on the yard, and I froze
Shore prayed it warn't one of them weird UFO's
As I stood thar turnin' round and around
There wuz white stuff fallin' and coatin' the ground
I grabbed a big buncha it up in my mitts
I thunk it wuz snow, but turnt out it were grits
I heered a big motor runnin' up overhead
And down come a monster truck painted all red
It bounced on the front 'n' bounced on the back
Then the driver clumb down 'n' grabbed a tow sack
He wuz white-haired 'n' husky, with red overalls
With ZZ Top whiskers 'n' blood-shot eyeballs
A red John Deere work cap wuz perched on his nut
And a WalMart white T-shirt half-covered his gut
He look like he just come offen the farm
'Cept fer them tattoos of elves on his arm
As I stood around there jist like a complete hick
He sez, “Boy ain't you gonna say crap to St. Nick?”
“Yes siree Bob”, sez I, “I got sumpin to say.
I'd shore like ta know where you wuz yesterday.
The toilet's stopped up and we's all out of heat.
Ain't got no money and they's nuthin' to eat.”
“Boy, I wanted ta make it on time”, he then said.
He look kinda sheepish, and hung down his head.
“But I stopped at a bar when I finished my rounds.
And run into St. Paddy at the Hare and the Hounds."
"Ya know that he's the very best pal of St. Nick.
But there's none who can put 'em away like that Mick.
And the next thing ya know, we's over at Chances
Where that Tooth Fairy is doin' ten-dollar lap dances.”
“The Tooth Fairy a stripper? That done give me the chills!”
“Yessir”, sez he, “Where ya think she gits all them bills?”
“Jist a minute”, I goes. “Where's the reindeer and sleigh?”
He turnt even redder, and then looked away.
“Well, we had a poker game goin', I thunk I would win.
I wuz holdin' four aces and bet everthang in.”
There was a palpable silence, a terrible hush.
“Then that damn Easter Bunny laid down a straight flush.”
“Well, I cut cards with a redneck and won me that truck
But as for the reindeer, they wuz squat outta luck
They throwed a big barbeque, and cooked 'em up slow
But I must say them reindeer's good eatin', ya know?”
No Dasher, no Dancer, no Prancer and Vixen!
No Comet, no Cupid, no Donner and Blitzen!
For hung on that red-painted monster truck's nose
Wuz eight pairs of antlers, lined up in two rows.
“Anyway, I brung vittles for you and the girls.”
And out of the sack pulled six freshly skint squirrels.
“I jist bagged 'em thar in yer neighbor's back yard
Fry 'em up well, boy, with plenty of lard.”
I goes, “Them squirrels is really fine eating fer shore,
But ta git past tomorrow, we's gonna need more.”
Sez he,“Well, I's a bit short on cash fer today.”
And he give me six lottery numbers to play.
Then up drives my ma with bad blood in her eye
Draws out her six-shooter, jist primed to let fly.
Then lowers her arm down and commences to bawl
Sez, “I poems
/love'>love you, you bastard, you tol' me you'd call!”
He sez, “Boy, looks like it's not healthy to linger
Sticks out his mitt and commands “Just pull on my finger.
The truck is fer you, son. I bid ya goodnight.”
And on a column of wind, he plumb riz out of sight.
I feels fevered and flushed as I stands there in awe
And I reckons this redneck St. Nick wuz my paw.
A voice far-off hollers, “Merry Christmas, now, y'all!
Then adds, “Don't fret none baby, jist wait fer my call!”