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A visit from Imps BC

Friday, December 25, 2015

Drink a rum and ponche creme, it’s Christmas morning, and my gift to you is a rewrite of an 1882 Christmas rhyme. The poem is a fine Christmas morning read, though I’ve cut it to stay within word-length; I hope my parody of the full thing will offer a few coarse giggles. My version appears below the original.

A visit from St Nicholas 
by Clement Clarke Moore

 Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

A Visit from Imps BC 
by Father Nobody Clarke

 Twas the morning of Christmas, when all through the house
Pa was dead-drunk and snoring, Ma was stirring the souse;
The two older boys drinking beastly cold beer,
And the sister was wining down in the corner by there;

The young ones were nestled all snug in their bed;
Pa wake up begging for aspirin and holding his head;
And Ma with her pot spoon, and I in priest dress,
Trying to relax, but feeling real stress,

Instead of foreign exchange, we had local tata,
And, next year, the economy was likely to shatter.
Away to the window I went, toting troubles,
Wondering if anybody would be out selling doubles.

Hunger could make a man temper just blow,
I feeling to eat a whole turkey, dry so,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a beat-up old Nissan, with a tess with no hair,

A fella looking so dread and so sinful and sleazy,
I knew in a moment he must be that firetrucking BC.
More rapid than eagles his detractors, they came,
And he whistled, and cussed them, and called them by name:

“Now, Pastor! Now, Imam! Now Father and Pandit!
Squeezing cash from poor people, all you is real bandit!
To the back of the cell! To the firing-squad wall!
Now firetruck away! Firetruck away! Firetruck away all!”

That little mofo don’t respect the Most High,
I feel to kick his short arse right up in the sky;
Is Jesus’ real bir’day today, for Christ’s sake
But that little firetrucker will call it a fake

Say how it had pagan holiday long before this
And so-called virgin birth is just winter solstice.
Is too much, like Spoiler, I just want to fall
But inside he swagger with a longtime soul crawl.

In a short pants and vest, like he really don’t care
About Jesus; or aping white people formal wear;
A bundle of ideas he was flinging around,
Hoping some might find fertile ground.

His eyes—they look Chinee! His calves fat like young cow!
If thunder clap, that firetrucker will bow!
Today, of all days, he should be thinking of Heaven,
But he knocking back 1919 before quarter to seven;

The notion of new politics, he held tight in his teeth,
PNM and UNC were Trinidad’s funeral wreath;
He had a broad face and a garlic pork belly
He drink rum-and-coconut water and throw ’way the jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old imps,
I laughed when I saw him, and ate curried strimps;
A wink of his eye and a twist of satire
Soon gave me to know I would be under fire;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Broke icons, and rules, encouraged nuns to twerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, set down to his prose;

He sprang to his soapbox, to his theme gave a whistle,
And I feel spirit lash hard like bull pistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he ran out of wind—
“If there is one God, there can be just one sin! And it goes by the name
of religious doctrine!”

 BC Pires is singing, “Happy Birthday Dear Solstice”


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