Clement C. Moore wrote the classic Christmas poem. Alas, I

have butchered it.

With apologies to all the nice people at dear old Adams, here goes nothing …

'Twas the Thursday before Christmas,

When all through Mower County

Not a police chief was stirring

Not even Big Jim, Gordie and Frosty the Mounty.

Huge gunny sacks were hung

By the pull tab machine with care

In hopes that St. Thomas

Soon would be there.

Keith, Dorothy and Corky, too, were nestled all snug in the bar,

While visions of winning the lottery danced in their heads;

And elsewhere in town Renee in her apron and Pete in his cap

Had just settled down

For a long winter's nap.

When down at City Hall

There arose such a clatter

Keith sprang from his chair

To see what was the matter.

Away to the door

Dorothy flew like a flash,

Tore open the lock

And drank sour mash.

The moon on the roof of the Dave Wiste's truck

Gave the luster of mid-day on Jim Kiefer sleeping at curbside below.

When what to Dan May's bleary eyes should appear

But a rusty old 4-wheel-drive

And eight caroling Catholics

With a bearded old driver

Not so lively and quick.

I knew in a moment

It must be St. Thomas.

More off-key than Lutherans

The carolers they sang

And he whistled and shouted

And called them by name.

"Now, Cleo! Now, Truck!

"Now, Dick and Bear!

On, Charley! On, Bill!

On, Jim and Byron if you dare!

To the top of the roof! of American Legion Post No. 146, the hallowed hall!

Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As copies of the Thursday Austin Daily Herald fly,

When they meet with the Monitor Review up to the sky,

So up to the Legion Post roof top

The carolers they flew

With the four-wheel-drive full of boxes of Sunshine Electric stock

And St. Thomas too.

And, then in a twinkling,

I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing

Of each caroler's hoof.

As I covered my head

And was turning around,

Down the chimney

St. Thomas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in leather

From his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished

With PJ's nachos and cheese.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler

Just opening his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled!

His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses,

His nose like a cherry.

His droll little mouth

Was drawn up like a bow

And the beard on his chin

Was as gray as old snow;

The stump of a pipe

He held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled

His head like Fred Harvey's chicken fry gone wrong.

He had a broad face

And a huge round belly

That shook when he laughed,

Like Steve Pitzen's or jelly.

He was chubby and plump,

A right jolly party animal,

And I laughed when I saw him,

In spite of myself.

A wink of his eye

And a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know

I wish I was dead.

He spoke not a word,

But went straight to his work,

And filled all the pretzel dishes.

Then turned with a jerk – No one you'd know

And laying his finger

Aside of his nose,

And giving a nod,

Up the chimney he rose,

He sprang to his four-wheel-drive,

To his carolers gave a whistle,

And away they all flew

Like the down of a thistle

But I heard him exclaim,

As he drove out of sight,

"I'd like to see Finbraaten and Sheely do this some night!"

Happy Christmas to all and thanks for your friendship!

Lee Bonorden can be contacted at 434-2232 or by e-mail at :mailto:lee.bonorden@austindailyherald.com