Mess stirs poem of life at my address

With apologies to Clement C. Moore, here's a little something for celebrating Dec. 26 (After all, why should Dec. 25 have all the fun?):

'Twas the morning after Christmas

and all through the land,

everyone was still sleeping

except for the band

of bargain-hunting

shoppers

determined to find

discounts and sales

that will give them a hand

with next Christmas's

parties

and presents and such

so they can save lots of money

and tell husbands they hadn't spent much.

Back home, the stockings are all over the floor,

Mixed up with paper and ribbons and more.

But thank goodness we're messy

And hadn't thrown out the trash

Or we'd never had found

Cousin Sally's missing cash.

The wreaths are all hanging

By very thin threads

And the once-jaunty bows

Are all pink now - not red.

The garlands are drooping

The reindeers are missing

The mistletoe's gone -

So much for the kissing.

And if we hear one more

festive Christmas CD

I think we'll go crazy -

but you might disagree.

The tree is losing a few of its lights

And several ornaments disappeared in the night.

"It wasn't us," the cats innocently demur.

But we're suspicious

of their contented purrs.

The rest of the house isn't much better -

it sure doesn't look like those holiday letters.

In the kitchen we find an unholy mess

Of leftover turkey - and who would guess

That after six weeks the fruitcake's still good?

Let's use it in the fireplace

When we run out of wood.

The cookies have crumbled,

the eggnog's gone bad,

My elastic-waist pants don't fit

And that makes me sad.

The Christmas sweaters are due

For some good thorough cleaning.

And is it finally time

To correct the tree's

leaning?

The candles are melted,

The lists are all done,

The parties are over,

What can we do now for fun?

The new toys are broken,

the batteries lost.

I can't even count how much Christmas has cost.

And the inflatable Santas out in the yard

Have run out of air - holidays are hard.

But you know I exclaim,

Even though I look a fright:

"Merry Christmas to all,

and next year I'll get it right."

Cathy Wood is a freelance writer living in the Shoals. For more from her, visit TimesDaily.com.