Runnels: Obsolete Santa

The back door flew open,

and guess who walked in.

This smoky filled gin joint,

that’s reekin’ with sin.

I’ll just let you guess though

I’ll give you a clue.

Bright red coveralls and

stocking cap, too.

Patent leather boots almost to

his knees.

And a black leather belt gave

his stomach a squeeze.

White rabbit fur on his outfit

for trim.

And a gray straggly beard

from his ears to his chin.

His transportation was made

of six head of deer.

Hitched to a sleigh he’d

parked in the rear.

No ho ho gave he as he

flopped in the chair.

Just pulled out a buck and

ordered a beer.

My eyes cut a hole through

the thick cloud of smoke;

Is this Santa Claus or is it a

joke?

From his bald head reflected.

the blue neon light.

I could see with a glance he’d

had a bad night.

His sad eyes, they glistened,

as tears hit the floor.

He said there’s no need for a

Santa no more.

With Wal-Mart and K-Mart

and Venture stores too.

I can’t match their prices,

what can Santa Claus do?

No scotch pine or cedar, for a

green Christmas tree.

Artificial stuff is all that you

see.

No kerosene lights or even a

candle.

Light hand knitted socks that

hang from the mantle.

I have nothin’ new in my

sack full of toys.

To bring a big smile from the

girls and the boys.

There are plastic toys

scattered from the front to the rear.

These kids all have Christmas

each day of the year.

I ordered another beer and the

man in the red outfit hands me a paper

bag.

I opened it and there was an

Orange, two chocolate drops and three

candy orange slices.

The juke box was playin’

Jingle Bells and I said, “Here’s to you,

Claus, and Merry Christmas.”

Maybe he don’t know it, but

trick or treaters get more than this.

Where is the Pac Man game

or the supersonic toys—how about an

Apple — an Apple computer?

Courtesy of Tom Runnels Publications. Copyrighted and Registered by Tom Runnels and Saundra Runnels Revocable Trust. Printed in The Banner Press: Dec. 21, 1989.