Twas the Week before Christmas and all through my house,
Half the gifts aren’t delivered still at the warehouse.
The CVS stockings so ugly so bare
Not hung on the chimney cause it needs a repair.

Mike’s children are coming to sleep in new beds.
Did I get enough pillows, duvets and warm spreads?
His mother is coming to fill in the gap.
At 80, my stairs are a screaming death trap!

Last night on the lawn there rose such a clatter.
I sprang to my feet..Oh my God! What’s the matter?!
Away flew the gate it was gone in a flash.
Blown off its hinges… Yep, that explains the crash.

The moon on the rise on the canyon aglow.
Tsunami winds kill my plants down below.
When what do my wondering eyes doth appear?
That fucking coyote on my lawn with no care.

Aaahhhh!!! I yell to that son of a bitch.
I fling my left shoe at his head. Not a nick.
He paused and looked up yet closer he came.
He clocked me and said,”Bitch. What’s my name?”

Now get! Now leave! I scream to the vixen.
You varmint…you old, mangy sistern.
From the top of the porch I pitch o’er the wall.
A cushion, a pot, my right shoe I fling all.

He then peed on my roses, hind leg to the sky,
Then vaulted the  fence. “Oh great, he can fly”.
Mr T’s little girls from New York and France flew
To their Mom’s, then our house. There’s drama there too.

The tree has been bought it goes up to the roof.
But the lights just went out. I smell smoke from that poof.
Drawing in a deep breath my head spinning round
Was this the last year Santa  Claus would squeeze down
Our chimney so messy leaving grime, leaving soot
And always muddy prints from his big beefy foot.
For years we debated was he white, was he black?
Giving strange ghetto names to his reindeer pack.

Was this it? My eyes twinkled, my heart not so merry.
My babe is now twelve. All these changes are scary.
My family of two has now grown with my beau.
One Ex, and two kids, his Mom and a bro.

The new house prepared, I’ve bought brand new sheets.
Yet I’m nervous about hosting all his new peeps.
In my house, all will see my soft underbelly
The thought of it turns my bones to jelly.

And on top of it all this little elf
Has a shit load of gifts to wrap by herself.
The menu for Christmas a blur in my head.
I once served Turducken, the thought fills me with dread.
How I chopped. How I stuffed those birds. It was work.
The shrimp etouffe spiced with a touch of jerk.

From the floor where it fell, spices clouded my nose.
Martha’s voice in my head, I scooped it up and then rose.
“Smile, my dear! And carry on with a whistle”.
That bird was served up on a garnish of thistle.

I still have a week the big day is in sight.
It’s your birthday, Sweet Jesus. Please send me your Light.