‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through the post office
Everything was stirring and there was so much amiss.
The packages were stuck by the back door with care,
In hopes that the mailman soon would be there.
The postal workers were nestled all snug at their spots,
While visions of M-16s danced through their thoughts.
When out by the back door there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my window to see what was the matter.
Away to the door I flew like a flash
And tripped over some packages where they had been stashed.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a huge mail truck and all of its gear.
With a little old driver who was not a Christmas fan,
I knew in a moment it must be the mailman.
More rapid than eagles his coursers he came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Expresses! Now Registereds! Now fragiles and oversized packages!
On cards! On Priorities! On, Certifieds and first classes!
To the main post office, and then on to the warehouse!
Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash as quick as a mouse!”
So up to our back door the coursers they flew
With a truck full of mail and the mailman, too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the street
The roaring and groaning of the mail truck fleet.
As I picked myself up and was turning around,
In the back door the mailman came with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue from his head to his toes,
And his clothes were quite dirty as it usually goes.
A bundle of packages he flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler with that big old pack.
His eyes— how dull! His dimples— not showing!
His cheeks were flushed, his face was not glowing!
His droll little mouth was pulled into a frown,
The beard on his chin was dirty and brown.
The stump of a toothpick he held tight in his teeth,
And black exhaust encircled the truck like a wreath.
He had a sad face and a round little belly
That shook when he yelled like a bowl full of jelly.
He was angry and stressed, not a jolly old elf,
And I cried when I saw him in spite of myself.
The glare of his eye and the twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had much to dread.
He spoke some bad words and went straight to his work,
He picked up the mail; then turned with a jerk,
Then thinking the customers’ money all spent,
And giving a nod, out the back door he went.
He sprang to his truck, and gave a short whistle,
Away the truck flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight,
“Next time mail your packages long before Christmas Eve night!”
(with sincerest apologies to Clement C. Moore)
(c) 1998 by Angela Johnson
The packages were stuck by the back door with care,
In hopes that the mailman soon would be there.
The postal workers were nestled all snug at their spots,
While visions of M-16s danced through their thoughts.
When out by the back door there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my window to see what was the matter.
Away to the door I flew like a flash
And tripped over some packages where they had been stashed.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a huge mail truck and all of its gear.
With a little old driver who was not a Christmas fan,
I knew in a moment it must be the mailman.
More rapid than eagles his coursers he came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Expresses! Now Registereds! Now fragiles and oversized packages!
On cards! On Priorities! On, Certifieds and first classes!
To the main post office, and then on to the warehouse!
Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash as quick as a mouse!”
So up to our back door the coursers they flew
With a truck full of mail and the mailman, too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the street
The roaring and groaning of the mail truck fleet.
As I picked myself up and was turning around,
In the back door the mailman came with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue from his head to his toes,
And his clothes were quite dirty as it usually goes.
A bundle of packages he flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler with that big old pack.
His eyes— how dull! His dimples— not showing!
His cheeks were flushed, his face was not glowing!
His droll little mouth was pulled into a frown,
The beard on his chin was dirty and brown.
The stump of a toothpick he held tight in his teeth,
And black exhaust encircled the truck like a wreath.
He had a sad face and a round little belly
That shook when he yelled like a bowl full of jelly.
He was angry and stressed, not a jolly old elf,
And I cried when I saw him in spite of myself.
The glare of his eye and the twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had much to dread.
He spoke some bad words and went straight to his work,
He picked up the mail; then turned with a jerk,
Then thinking the customers’ money all spent,
And giving a nod, out the back door he went.
He sprang to his truck, and gave a short whistle,
Away the truck flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight,
“Next time mail your packages long before Christmas Eve night!”
(with sincerest apologies to Clement C. Moore)
(c) 1998 by Angela Johnson
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