Slow as Christmas

My father says I’m “slow as Christmas”
As if it is something wrong.
But I’ve noticed how grumpy he gets
When the season comes along.

He groans and grunts when getting my list
Of stuff that Santa should bring.
Acts like the world’s coming to an end
Each time I hand him the thing.

 “Heavens,” he’ll say, then start pouring sweat
Like a snowman in the sun.
He’ll clear his throat and dab at his brow
And nervously eye his gun.

 Sometimes he’ll cry, if the timing is right;
Weep like a baby in pain.
Other times he laughs maniacally —
Cackling like he’s gone insane.

He’ll pull out his hair or scream in a pillow,
Or curse when he thinks I can’t hear.
He’ll stomp around and preach to himself
When Christmas comes ‘round each year.

So it seems to me if it’s such an ordeal,
And Christmas is such a pain,
When I take my time mowing the lawn
He really ought not complain.



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