I’ve been negligent with my posts in recent weeks. I was in Cuba with my daughter for a week, and we spent some wonderful, quality time together. I’ll post some pictures in a future post. Work has been busy. Life has been busy. It’s a busy time of year, yada yada.
With all this busyness consuming my life, my brain has been going through a dry spell with any creative writing too. Not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but I moderate a community writers’ group that meets the first Wednesday of every month, and we’re expected to bring something to read aloud at meetings. Of course I had nothing prepared for our December meeting.
To make a long story short, I wanted to write a quick poem during my lunch hour and hadn’t been able to think of anything to write about all morning, when suddenly, an image of a redneck who’s pissed off Santa popped into my mind (only God would know why…and maybe a psychiatrist). You can read the result of my brain fart below.
A Redneck Christmas Poem
Santa don’t come down
muh chimney no more,
He don’t even come through
a window or door.
No more presents for me,
‘cuz I think he bin told,
‘bout the six-pack-o Bud
an’ the smokes I done stole.
An’ how I drunk moonshine
straight from the still;
Spent two days in a whorehouse, smashed to the gills.
Borrowed Clyde Dooley’s truck to cross the town border,
An’ pick up the ten pounds of weed I done ordered.
Hid the weed in Clyde’s barn, where I thought I could trust it,
Sheriff got wind, an’ poor Clyde, he got busted.
Next day, I beat a ho with a hickory switch,
‘cause she gave me somethin’ that made muh balls itch.
Dancin’ and scratchin’, I dug out muh 12-gauge,
An’ blew more than a gasket in muh boy-gone-wild rage.
Now, there’s a mess of buckshot in the whorehouse walls,
An’ no more glass windows in the ol’ town hall.
Sheriff’s car? Well it done look like swiss cheese,
spoutin’ with fountains of green anti-freeze.
Needless to say, it weren’t a good year,
I don’t give a damn ‘bout no peace an’ good cheer.
Christmas ain’t comin’ for me anytime soon,
Just the sheriff and his jailhouse posse o’ goons.
There ain’t no frickin chimneys in the county jail,
for Santa to come down and pay for my bail.
Feel free to come knockin’, ‘cause my trailer ain’t be rockin’,
I know I’m getting’ coal instead’a crack in muh stockin’.
‘fraid I won’t be gittin’ no presents no mo’,
No mo’ boobies and butt under the mistletoe.
Yep—Santa—he don’t love me no mo’.
‘cause this year, I bin a baaaad, baaaad bo’.
Create-a-holic Writer 