Column: A Dawsonian twist on an old classic

Managing Editor’s note: Due to Jon Dawson’s weekly de-oiling of his hair taking longer than the usual 12-hour process, he has submitted this poem for today’s column. This originally appeared in The Free Press on Dec. 11, 2008.

Usually, whenever somebody decides to improve on something that already works fine, the results can be disastrous: New Coke, pink John Deere hats and gravy-flavored toothpaste.

Sometimes the original can be improved on: Peanut M&Ms, Doctor Who and pizza with cheese on both sides of the crust.

Although it’s tough to improve on something that has worked for so long, I’ve decided to take up that challenge. Here’s my take on a holiday classic, with a story about my boss mixed in for good measure.

Warning: You may want to have a box of Kleenex close at hand, as this gets fairly emotional.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the land
The wallets were starving, just pennies in hand
The credit cards were maxed-out with nary a care,
In hopes that St. Ed McMahon soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While their parents scratched lottery tickets till their fingers bled;
And Mama in her bathrobe, and I in my chaps,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I searched through the house for a ball peen hammer.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Flung open the door and hid all my cash.
The moon on the driveway of a midnight frost;
Gave the luster of an oil leak from an oil pan of rust.
When, what to my watering eyes should appear,
But a repo man, with reposessin’ gear.
With a scary old scalp, so slimy and slick,
Surely he came for my treasured Crown Vic.
More rapid than eagles the payments were due,
With each payment, I wrote such a note;
“I don’t have it all, but I’ll get it soon!”
“My workman’s comp case will surely balloon!”
To the top of the porch I sang with my all:
“Now go away! Go away! Go away all!”
But with a set of keys from the dealership on his finger
He drove off into the night, he did not linger
As I cried in my hands, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Holmes came with a bound.
He was dressed in red spandex, from his head to his foot,
His nametag read “Patrick,” all covered in soot.
He summoned me closer, to ask me a question,
“Do you have any Tums? I’ve got indigestion.”
With a cure in his tummy, he walked out of sight
With —- to my chagrin —- my kiddy’s brand new bike.

Jon Dawson can be reached at 252-559-1083 or at jdawson@freedomenc.com. Check out Jon’s blog at jdawson.encblogs.com.