The Eternal Christmassing Clan

There was an old man of LaManchla
Who thought he would like a tarantula.
Its gangling legs
Would make fabulous pegs
On the limbs of his eclectic tree.

From under the shimmering tinsel,
With hairy and scary black muzzle
Tarantula’s eyes
Would be a surprise
For his uncles and nieces to see.

He was a bemusingly weird duck,
Whose brain, they said, must have seen hard luck.
His nephews and aunts
Often laughed at his pants,
Which always had holes in the knee.

He yearly invited the whole clan
To celebrate Christmas in Toucan.
He’d rent a big place
And prepare, with great grace,
His decor with such obvious glee.

He laughed at their laughable laughing.
He joyed in the time they were having.
A fortnight of fun
With laughing and pun,
And daily new trimmings there’d be.

The year that he got the tarantula,
The weather was bad as Sibantula,
Where Eefreakies frolic
For months hyperbolic
In snow up as high as your chin.

They flew in, in planes with big skis,
And drove in on sleds, if you please;
With baubles and bows,
And icicle nose;
They came for this meeting of kin.

The fire was burning so bright
That it shot up a beacon of light
Through the blizzarding snow
Making all of them know
How to get to the place he was in.

They came in their kuklas and scarves,
Their boots and fur hats sent from Marve’s.
(He’s the one who rents clothes
And crampons and hose
To people who climb in Chingpin).

It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed;
Completely obscuring the road.
It covered the sheds,
And buried the sleds,
Till no one could tell where they’d been.

It stormed from midnight to noon,
Till icicles hung from the moon.
The spin of the earth
Got a lopsided birth
From the weight of the gathering snow.

The party went on for two weeks,
With the dames, and the jocks, and the geeks.
They were unwrapping gifts,
And sleeping in shifts;
Ignoring the blizzard’s big blow.

The children were running around,
And making cacophonous sound.
The mamas and aunts
Were all in a trance,
And none of them said, “Oh, oh, oh!”.

The men, meanwhile, spoke of their guns,
And daring exploits with their sons.
It was fish and black bear,
And baldness of hair,
In one-ups-man talk, toe to toe.

Our man kept the fireplace hot,
With plenty of soup in the pot;
And never complained;
Nor seemed to be pained
When they called him a goofy old crow.

The laughing and singing went on
Through noontime, and midnight, and dawn.
To know such a time
Of rhythm and rhyme
Was beyond their experience, all.

Each day was a gala affair
With bows and wrappings to tare.
The children would squeal
And dance and reel,
And wrappings spilled into the hall.

The boxes made houses and cars
For children with eyes bright as stars.
They eat and they played,
And merriment made,
With fun for the large and the small.

And, meanwhile, outside in the snow;
The drifts piled up by the blow,
Formed mountains to ski,
And valleys to see,
With treetops obscured by the squall.

The snow was now piling so high;
It reached up to clouds in the sky.
The smoke from the fire
Wafted up even higher,
Through a chimney of ice tree top tall.

They tried to get out of the door,
To play in the snow, one time more.
But the wall that was formed
From the snow while it stormed,
Stopped them dead in their tracks with a bang.

They retreated back into the house,
And dished up some plates of stuffed grouse.
Then they sat down to eat,
And enjoy a nice treat
Of some laughter and talk while they sang.

They sent the tarantula out;
He was an old Indian scout.
He dug his way up
To the big dipper’s cup,
And returned with old Ursa’s white fang.

And so, they play year after year,
With never a care or a fear.
And as far as we know,
They’re still buried in snow.
And their telephones never have rang.

And this is how the old story began
Of the Eternal Christmasing Clan.
They could never get out,
And some now are quite stout.
They’re a happy and joyous old gang.