With Apologies to Clement Moore… Or Maybe Henry Livingston Jr.

Kramer gets into the Christmas spirit with an original poem.

This season I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a column on the theme: What if men were in charge of Christmas?  I ended up writing an entirely original poem that pays tribute to the contributions of both genders during this special holiday time:

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
or maybe six days;
no calendar was visible
through the Cohiba haze.

The stockings were hung
in the shower with care;
in hopes that the cleaning lady
would one day be there.

A few guys were sleeping,
though not in their beds,
while visions of porn stars
danced in their heads.

While Harley the Rott mix
chewed a stuffed elf,
and eyed a half ham sub
left on a shelf.

When from down in the basement
there arose such a clatter,
I turned off my bowl game
to see what was the matter.

“Who the Hell goes there?”
I yelled down the stairwell.
“You better speak up,
or start sayin’ your farewells.”

The light from a bare bulb cast barely a flicker;
it revealed stacks of empties on chairs made of wicker.
When onto what sight did my besotted eyes glom,
but a young Gisele Bundchen — before she met Tom.
Her come-hither look was so lively and quick;
I reached for my holster, thinking this was a trick.

Then eight other supermodels appeared in the cellar.
“Come here, girls,” said Gisele. “We found us some fellers.
Now Heidi, now Candice! You too, Alessandra.
On Kate, on Miranda! Move your tush, Adriana!
The rest of you, too, don’t delay, what the heck?
That means you, Ms. Kurkova, and you, Alek Wek!
To the living room first. Bring the stuff from the mall!
I hope these nice gentlemen like their elves tall.”

“But the place is a mess . . .” I started to say.
“But you’re men,” Giselle cooed. “It’s always this way.”
Just then Dan emerged looking tired and drugged.
“Hate to tell ya, supermodels, but our crapper is plugged.
We probably should snake it, plus the flapper valve’s loose.
My advice to you, ladies: Don’t drop a deuce.”
“No worries,” they said, with faces of glee.
“We’re Christmas Eve miracles: We don’t even pee!”

Then the nine supermodels got down to business.
They cleaned and they decorated, as God is our witness.
We stood there and watched them and could not believe
what had become of our Christmas Eve.
The scent of mulled cider soon filled our manse.
“What the F*^&*!” exclaimed Fred in his underpants.

They turned off the ball game, though the score was a tie.
Candice decreed, “Let’s make eggnog pie!”
They brought in a tree; o how it did twinkle.
Supermodels or not, I felt myself shrinkle.

They hung tinsel and cherubs, a red Christmas lark.
They made gingerbread punch with my Maker’s Mark.
Kevin whispered to me, “What’s the frickin’ occasion?”
“Part Christmas,” I answered, “and part home invasion.”

And then on my shoulder I felt a light tap.
“Merry Christmas,” Gisele said. “You’ve got prezzies to wrap.”
She looked smokin’ hot, in her little red suit,
as she dumped at my feet a big bag of loot.
I stared at the items spilling out of her pack.
“Get the hell out,” I said, “and never come back!”

“It’s Christmas,” she glowered, showing no fear.
“Try my pfeffernüsse cookies. They’re without peer.”
Then she snuggled against me amidst all the strife,
and purred: “Now we will watch It’s a Wonderful Life!”

Right then it was clear that the battle was lost.
We had to get out, whatever the cost.
If not for the snow tires on Dave’s Ford Aspire,
they’d have roasted our chestnuts on an open fire.

Dave floored it hard, and we fled out of sight.
Harley came too, howling into the night.
But as we were leaving, I heard one of them jeer,
“Only 366 days till Christmas next year.”

Snowflake render for header image by Kaneity on


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