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Holiday Poem: A Visit From Drunk Yank
With the holiday season here I was inspired to write a little poetry. This particular one I thought to share was written in the style of the classic, "A Visit From St. Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore, and was inspired by true events.With any luck these events will never be replayed, but since you never know the future, I try to remember it in a humorous light.
A Visit From Drunk Yank
‘Twas the night after Christmas
when in our little house
I was enjoying some eggnog
and snuggled up to my spouse.
Mog was turned on
to our favorite rock tunes
while the children watched
"The Matrix" back in one of their rooms.
When out from the street
there sounded a vulgar shout,
that managed sufficiently
to drown Metallica out.
So I opened the window blind
and looked out to the scene
to figure out just who
who was ranting obscene.
The light from the street lamp
with its crystal-bright glow
provided illumination to
the person wearing summer Capri’s out in the snow.
Oh crap, I muttered for what did appear,
a woman I knew, holding a Michelob beer.
With disheveled bun on her head and body so lank,
I knew in a moment it could only be Drunk Yank.
She was ranting about neighbors, all of us she blamed,
she cursed us in total, and then by more colorful names:
“Scr*w all of you white trash, NASCAR lovers, you pr*cks!
Damn you ignorant bumpkins and the gun-toting d*cks!
Go to hell, and stay there, you redneck queers
I’ll dance on your graves and spit in your beer!”
As spit dries on the lips of the paranoid insane
her frenzy grew wild, she lost all restrain;
the beer dropped from her hand as she plodded and weaved,
she stumbled into a branch and tore her shirt sleeve
Up to our porch steps she managed to get
when she tripped over the cat and scared our poor pet.
And then in a twinkling I saw her fall down;
she cried out, “Damn kids!” as her backside collided with ground.
As I stared in amazement and took a sip from my cup
our close neighbors came out to see just what the heck was up.
Yank was covered in snow, her front and her back
and she shook all over, like an addict in search of some crack.
She ranted some more, her face got all red
and she balled up her bony fists until they had bled.
Her eyes, how they flashed,
her lips, how they foamed,
and she looked ‘round for the huge dog
forgotten when she set off from home.
So she accused us, saying we’d shot him surely this time,
baked him up in cornbread or squeezed him for 'shine.
The neighbors started laughing, they couldn’t help themselves
and my husband called the police from the phone on the shelf.
On the neighbors now Yank turned with her angst,
called them inbred idiots, nothing like Yanks.
She told how with a mounted scope she knew everything that went on,
How she saw into our homes and saw into our lawns.
She charged that we stole her mail, threw rocks at her dog
"No surprise", she said, "southerners are nothing but hogs."
And just as the blue flashes came into sight,
she vomited the six-pack she’d imbibed that one night.
Then lunging for the umbrella kept by our door,
she brandished it at Great-grandma Smith and called her a wh*re.
The officers sprang from their car, and grabbed her two arms
then pulled Drunk Yank down before she could do any harm.
But I heard her exclaim as they cuffed her that night,
“You rednecks are nothing but ill-mannered blight!"
©December 22, 2013 by Beth Perry