Not a patron was stirring, at least not so far.
While the servers hung out by the manager's door
In hopes they'd finally get a raise from the ol' bore.
The band's spouses were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of real day jobs danced in their heads;
Tom picked up his drumsticks, I turned on my amp,
And we'd just started in for a long winter's jam,
When out from the street there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from the stage to see what was the matter.
A way to the lobby we walked with our beers,
Threw open the door and gazed out upon Sears;
Where lights on the puddles of dirty brown snow
Sadly reminded of OUR pyro tech show
When, what to our slightly drunk eyes should appear,
But a rusted out Dodge, pulled by eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so white-haired and thick,
We thought for a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Herefords his livestock they came,
And he whistled, and stomped, and yelled out their names;
"Now, Flasher! Now, Blaster! Now, Crasher and Mixer!
On Roadie, on Groupie, on Bouncer and Spritzer!
To the top of the bar! to the front of the stage!
Now thrash away! hack away, like Jimmy Page!"
As patrons at a country bar surely would cry,
When hit with a metal tune, how fast their boots fly
So up to the bar-top the animals flew,
With a truck full of stuff, and the old guy too.
And then, in an instant, we heard on the roof
The tramping and pawing of each muddy hoof.
As we drew in our heads, and were coming around,
Down the chimney pipe this freak fell with a bound.
Dressed in blue coveralls, from his head to his foot,
His clothes were just reeking of vodka and soot;
A hard-shell guitar case he'd flung on his back,
And he looked like some hobo, just jumped off the tracks.
His eyes were glazed over! his dimples were scary!
His cheeks were like sandpaper, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth by moustache was concealed,
And a rash åneath his beard was observed as he neared.
The end of a cig he held tight in his lips,
He put out his ashes in the jar that said "tips."
He had a wrinkled old face and a large grotesque belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowl of grape jelly.
He was grungy and plump, a poor excuse for an elf,
And I shuddered when I saw him, in spite of myself;
But when he opened that case & took out a vintage Tele,
My feelings of disgust were replaced by huge envy.
He spoke not a word, but placed the prize in my hands,
Continuing with gifts for the others in the band;
And making his way to his ramshackle ride,
He took his leave of the bar with a roar and a dive.
I guess we found out Santa wasn't who we thought
And in every small town bar we'll have respect for drunken sots
But the most astonishing aspect, the thing that shook our world,
Was that the old gent had left without requesting "Red Neck Girl".
- Merry Christmas!
from Lorena Kelly, with thanks to Dan Fortier and Ken Burton.
