The Night Before Christmas… according to a Pom in ‘Stralya!

‘twas the night before Christmas, and out on the farm

an Englishman was drinking and spinning a yarn

tales of white Christmas and frost on the trees

we’ll get none of that here, its freaking forty degrees!

the stockings are wilting by the chimney with heat

where the cookies are melted, ready for Santa to eat

the milk would’ve curdled during the long night watch

so Saint Nick asked the kids to leave a nice glass of scotch

I’d love to say, that all through the house

not a creature was stirring not even a mouse

but the squeal of the cat and a short sharp snap

tells of another bloody rodent, caught in the trap

at least if we catch them, we can throw them outside

not like the last one, who napped in our saucepan, then curled up and died.

the horses in the paddock, all winnie and neigh

and bash the hell outta the dogs, who get in their way

the frogs cling to the walls and croak through the night

luring sleepy, barefoot drunks to step in their… shi…

…ning… lights on the windows and wrapped round the tree

glittering a merry old Christmas for you and for me

the children were screaming, now banished to bed

threats of no presents, haunting their heads

Mamma’s exhausted, but still got plenty to wrap

while I sit on my arse, pretending to nap

When on the veranda, there arose a hell of a noise

I crawled from my seat, tripping on broken old toys

away to the door, I stumbled and fell

tore open the screens and let out a yell

‘Get back you bastard’ I screamed at the dog

and tried not to vomit, as I stepped on a frog

he’s off over the paddock, chasing a horse

but all the commotion comes from a different source

To my wondering eyes, there appears, by the light of the moon

a fat bloke in a singlet, holding a half bag of goon

on the back of a ride-on, he draws closer and slower

hiccups and coughs and steps down from his mower

the engine is busted, all battered and worn

but eight ponies are harnessed and the mower is drawn

by these mangy old beasts, who stand under the stars

wearing those fake reindeer antlers, wankers put on their cars.

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick

no else would go out, looking like such a dick

He stood there and called his eight horses by name

he whistled and shouted and onwards they came

“Now, Donny! now, Fred! now, Ernie and Gambler!

On, Pepsi! on, Diesel! on,  Annie and Cracker!

To the top of the carport! To the top of the shed!

Now dash away, dash away, I give you your head!”

As the Kookaburra’s laugh when they soar and they fly

so the ponies they whinnied as they leapt to the sky

with a mower full of toys, and the fat Santa too

up in the air, to the rooftop they flew.

Then, like a Possum, scratching round on the roof

came the sound of a mower and the sound of each hoof

as I drew closed the door and turned around in the gloom

there stood Old Nick with his glass, on the far of the room

Dressed in his singlet, old boardies and thongs

he stood by the aircon just like he belonged

a swag full of toys he had flung on his back

but he looked like a hobo just out for the crack

His eyes – how they sparkled! - like he’d had too much rum

and over the top of his boardies poked his jolly red bum

his cheeks were all flushed and as red as his nose

but after a beer in each house, yours would too I suppose

A dog-end rollie, he had hung from his lips

the smoke clung to his beard and wreathed through the tips

he was a bit of a porker and covered in dirt

his big fat belly peeking under his shirt

I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself

and reached for the bottle I keep on the top shelf

‘If you’re having one, I better pour one out too’

he looked at his glass and hiccupped ’ve jusht had a few’

He raised his glass, in a half-hearted salute

then to his lips and straight down the chute

he rolled out the swag and I admit I did frown

it looked like the bludger was going to lay down

but out of the swag rolled a collection of toys

plenty for girls and of course , plenty for boys

he filled up the stockings, then picked the swag off the floor

mumbled ‘m a little too pished, can I pleashe ushe the door?’

Santa walked to the door, and stumbled into the night

(but not before rolling a smoke and bumming a light)

‘Come, Gambler!’ he shouted to the team on the roof

and the ponies flew down with many a clattering hoof

He climbed on the mower, threw the swag on the back

picked up the stockwhip and gave it a crack

and Santa exclaimed as they soared out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all, let’s get pissed up tonight!”