SANTA LIKES HIS GROG

          SANTA  LIKES  HIS  GROG

                        Dedicated to stripey

When Santa visited last Christmas Eve

I had something devious up my sleeve.

I'd suspected Santa for a while

But cheating was not really my style.

I planned to watch him with one open eye, 

Knowing I would make a very good spy. 

As soon as I heard him inside our house, 

Tucked under my quilt, I hid like a mouse.

I'd been lying awake keeping track of the time 

Enjoying my new book with my favorite rhyme. 

He came directly to check on me in my bed. 

Roughly he stroked my hair and felt my sweaty head. 

"The nerve of him," I thought to myself, 

As he brushed by my storybook shelf.

My first reaction was to go and tell my dad 

But I'd have been in trouble, told that I was bad 

Since I knew I was supposed to be sound asleep.

I'd often been reminded and warned not to peep. 

I had been sent to bed just after seven. 

Mom and Dad mostly go around eleven.

I'd purposely left the bedroom door ajar

So I could watch the happenings from afar. 

Next Santa went to check on the other boys. 

He was making sure to leave just enough toys. 

I reckoned they'd be sleeping, worn right out. 

They'd skied all day and done their paper route.

I watched what he was doing in the living room 

To be sweeping up the hearth with the old, hair broom.

Why did he not want to leave a trace? 

What was it he spilled near the fireplace? 

It smelled like tobacco, it was quite strong. 

"What? Santa would never smoke. Something's wrong."

The next thing I knew he was at Dad's liquor supply. 

He seemed to take a liking to the Canadian rye. 

Dad would be mad if he knew that.

"Drinking," he said, "made men so fat."

'Twas not very long till he was lying on the floor.

"Oh no," I worried, "how will I get him out the door? 

He looks asleep; I heard him snore.

Sounded just like a big, old boar

And I know that it's already getting very late. 

Will he ever finish all his rounds at this slow rate?"

Should I wake him, shake him and hit him with the broom?

Should I wrap him in the rug and roll him across the room?

Should I grab the poker and bang hard on the grate?

And as soon as he wakes, should I help him since he's late?

Just then I was wakened by our Rotty's scary bark.

Quick as a wink Santa sledded off into the dark.

I'd been dreaming for hours and felt much relieved 

To know Santa was really the saint that I thought 

And such a jolly, good fellow like I'd been taught.

                                                                         Gail  Runschke

                                                             Revised December 31, 2018

                                                             Updated December 26, 2019

                                 Revised and  amended  December 22, 2020

A/N I wish to dedicate this narrative, Christmas poem

to my talented and loyal Wattpad poet friend, stripey (Steve).