a red-flanneled fat man at my bedroom door.
In one hand, an empty fifth bottle of Jack.
At His feet: a filthy, disgusting toy sack.
He staggered and swayed, His hand on His head,
Then stumbled and landed sprawled flat ‘cross my bed.
His corpulent gut pinned me down to the tick.
The peppermint stench of His breath made me sick.
His soft pearly beard smelled like cookies and candy.
And His suit reek as if it were steeped in cheap brandy.
He brought His broad rosy-cheeked face to my ear
And rasped as He whispered, His urgency clear,
“I’m coming to Boston ... You know what to do.
December 18 ... Tell them ... (Urp!) ... Tell the crew!”
The empty fifth bottle clattered onto the floor.
He rolled His paunch off me and lurched towards the door.
Then He paused, looked back and menaced again,
“December 18. Tell them where! Tell them when!”
In His eyes flickered mischief, His grin slowly spread,
then He stumbled away as I lay frozen in bed.
I woke with a start. I knew what to do.
In a strange dream He told me. Now I must tell you.
My hands are still trembling. My excitement is clear:
Come December 18, Santacon will be here!
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