Windsor Tomcats

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the halls

Were Danny and Stevo hunting for golf balls

Pfanueff stockings were hung by the chimney over there

Stevo had hopes the Bundura would care

The Tomcats were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of Stanley’s Cups danced in their heads.

Ends a Tomcat party with the boys wearing their caps,

had just settled their pickled brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,

I ‘dismounted ‘dis chick  to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

And there was Snowpants wearing nothing but a purple sash.

The moon on the breast above the house of Crow

gave the lustre of midday to Lakeshore Lemons below,

when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

was Hurricane riding in a sleigh with tiny reindeer.

With the lefty  driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it couldn’t be Nick.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,

and he whistled and shouted, it was Andy, Doc’s his nickname.

“Now Louis! Now Spanky!

Now Chevy and Soupy!

On, Lovie! On, Sunny!

On, Hollywood, on Killer!

To the top of the porch!

If you’re not too drunk to walk at all!

Now dash away! Dash away!

Dash away all!”

And then, in a tinkling, I heard on the roof

It was Junior having a wiz, boy what a  goof.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

Down the chimney came Junior with Zaba, not fucking around.

His eyes–how they crossed! The dimples in his ass, how merry!

Had ten martinis with a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

Cribzee and Tunezee made him blow.

The stump of a bong he held tight in his teeth,

and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

You’re going to jail in this white full sized van,

You’ll be spending the holidays in the can

Stevo dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

and his clothes were not tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of MGD he had flung on his back,

and he looked like a bartender just opening his pack.

As dry leaves that before the Tomcats fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, glasses held high

so up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

another trip to Battlecreek, starting to brew

There is too much hacking at hockey, Stevo said at work,

One of these days, I am going to call that guy a jerk.

And laying his stick at the side of the bench,

Michelle would kill me if I called her a wench

He sprang to his feet, to his team gave a whistle,

“Play the fucking ball” until you hear the whistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Hockey to all, and to all a good night!”

By St. Nick (May Day)