By Bob Huber: Humor Columnist
Now and then I dig into my stale-notes vault seeking something unusual to write about. This year I plucked a familiar poem especially for victims of Post Christmas Blues Syndrome. It’s titled “’Twas a week after Christmas, with apologies to Clement C. Moore.” It goes like this:
(Warning! Prepare to shed a tear. When I take off on sentimental stuff, it gets damp around here. I’ve even been known to make sports writers weep.)
’Twas a week after Christmas and all through the house
Every creature was hurting, even the mouse.
The toys were all broken, their batteries dead,
And Santa was passed out with ice on his head.
Wrappings and ribbons covered the floor,
While upstairs the family continued to snore.
So I in my flannel shirt, slippers and jeans
Went into the kitchen and started to clean,
When in front of our house there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the sink to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains and threw up the sash.
When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear
But a little white truck with an oversized mirror.
The driver was smiling, so lively and grand,
With a patch on his jacket: “U.S. POSTMAN.”
With a handful of bills he grinned like a fox,
Then stuffed them into our sagging mailbox.
Bill after bill, they came
As he called them by name—
“Now Wal-Mart too,
“And a Hallmark or two.
“You’re over your limit,
“at every store,
“Now charge away,
“Charge away all.”
He whooped and he whistled as he finished his work,
Then he sprung to his truck and waved with a jerk.
As he drove down the road,
Driving much faster with just half a load,
I heard him exclaim with holiday cheer,
“Enjoy what you bought. You’ll be paying all year.”
(Gets you, doesn’t it?—right in your back pocket.)