’Tis the afternoon after Christmas brunch
And the grass still has a frosty crunch.
I’ve wheeled out the wheelbarrow
And filled it with logs from the ol’ cord
Thinkin’ ’bout the fire that will soon roar
The wind tickles my whiskers and ears
And bids me to reach for one or two beers.
But I am bloated as a tick and too full to kick
The stockings still hang by the chimney but slack
As I stack up the firewood and kindling in fact.
Mom’s in her sweatshirt and I’ve slipped off the boots
Then lean back in my chair as if taking root
She’s out in kitchen stirring up fixin’s
I’m waitin’ for the warmth of the fire on my toes
And no matter the clatter I will not arose.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good, good night.