‘Twas the Night Before Ruckmas
‘Twas the night before Ruckmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was PT’ing, not even a mouse;
The rucks were hung by the front door with care,
In hopes that St. Bomber soon would be there;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like Cadre Flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a shirtless man, carrying eight cases of beer.
With a tiger-stripe ruck, so perfectly sick,
I knew in a moment it couldn’t be Nick.
Quite slower than Christmas, his course stayed the same,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called his beers all by name;
“Now, Budwiser! now, Bud! now, Bud Heavy not Light!
On, Budwiser! Wait, I said that! Bud for everyone tonight!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now chug away! chug away! chug away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When he meets with an obstacle, he lets out a loud sigh,
So up to the houses the shirtless man drew,
With his ruck full of beer, ’twas St. Bomber so true.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the porch
The prancing and pawing of someone aloof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Straight through the front door, St. Bomber came with a bound.
He was covered in tattoos, from his head to his foot,
And what clothes he did wear were tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of beer he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a GRT just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a stogie he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a shark attacked beach;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was shirtless and happy, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Filled rucks with the beers; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
And giving a nod, out the front door he strode;
He sprang to streets, and gave a great whistle,
And away he rucked, like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rucked out of sight,
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, YOU F’ers ARE UNWORTHY!