'Twas the night of our Christmas
Gosh, look at the house,
No one could get through it
Not even a mouse.

There's tags, seals, and wrappings
Knee high on the floor,
Strung out, from the front room
To the back kitchen door.

The noise and the din, from
The children at play,
With cars, trains and scooters
Would turn your hair gray.

From gorging on dinner
Dad's groaning with pain,
While Mom's worn, and tired
From bustle and strain.

The mess must be mastered
As soon as she's able,
Dirty dishes to wash
On the dining room table.

There's bones form the chicken
And seeds from the dates,
There's orange peel and bread crusts
Piled on dirty plates.

The Christmas tree droops
Dropping needles galore,
Strings of popcorn and tinsel
Hang down on the floor.

The kids creep behind it
In guns battle fight,
To ambush some rustler
Who rides through the night.

We dodge missiles and arrows
Shot out by the boys,
Our feet crunch on nutshells
We fall over toys.

The oldsters are tired
The youngsters are gay,
With excitement of gifts
Of a big Christmas Day.

We struggle to get them
All tucked in their beds,
While vision of toys and dolls
Dance in their heads.

Then Dad in pajamas
And Mom in night gown,
Glad to crawl 'neath the covers
Lay their weary heads down.

Everyone of us tired
Tho full of good cheer,
But thankful that Christmas
Just comes, once a year.

© Mabel Boyd Royal-Steen
Christmas, 1947

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