T'was the Day After Christmas

With apologies to Clement C. Moore

T'was the Day After Christmas

T'was the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
the only sound stirring is my snoring spouse.
The stockings were scattered all over the floor
Not quite as neat as it was once before.

Rumpled and wrinkled and mussed were our beds
From nightmares of eating too much rich shortbreads
With Dad in his long johns and the dog in my lap
My forehead pulsated like a loud thunderclap.

When under the tree there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter
O'er to the tree I stumbled to find
The source of the action, the real mastermind.

His eyes, how they twinkled! How dashing, how merry!
His attitude casual, with no commentary.
He watched me approach without moving a muscle
Then pulled at a tree branch to make a strong rustle.

He rubbed all his whiskers along the tree skirt
And pushed through the packages like an expert
The four footed culprit soon gamboled away
Before I could catch him and then make him pay.

He raced to the closet and soon disappeared
With the ease of a burglar, or perhaps a Bluebeard.
But I heard him exclaim 'ere he ran out of sight
"It's Christmas, Mom, don't be so uptight!"