Here’s December, Christmas season:
I don’t like it–if that’s treason,
Then I oughta hang, it’s true;
Hear me out before you judge me,
Then if you can blot and smudge me,
I don’t give a dang, do you?
Scrooge, we figure, was a poet;
‘Though the record doesn’t show it,
That it’s true we’re pretty sure;
Only in the month December,ยท
If our Dickens we remember,
Did he veer from simon-pure!
I for one can hardly blame him;
Would-be poets rarely shame him,
Struggling vainly, writing verse.
Have you tried for bread and butter
Rhyming shutter, gutter, flutter?
(Would there nothing any worse!)
For what the heck’ll rhyme with Christmas,
Save the that corny, oft-used “isthmus”?
There’s one even worse, because
Find me one that goes with “Santa”–
Oh, of course there’s still “Atlanta”,
Perhaps the place for Santa Claus!
And again, consider “reindeer”–
What’ll go with that but “pain, dear”?
See why poets and their kin
Hate the sight and sound of Christmas?
Hold ‘er right there, sonny, this must
Be the place where I came in!
Scrooge and I don’t hate Christmas the way people think–
It’s just the @!?**l rhyming that causes the stink!
If you’d like to see both of us happy (though queer)
Skip the presents and wish us a HAPPY NEW YEAR!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 14, 1942
