On the First Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
a pink and perfect Mustang
with a V-8 supercharged engine,
fuel-injection, radial tires, and ...
On the Second Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
a complete set of 50 CDs,
digitized, remastered, all the
classic acts from Fillmore West, and ...
On the Third Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
an apartment lease, paid in full,
with tenant approvals signed and delivered
on the tony Upper West Side, and ...
On the Fourth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
a beach house in Florida, a yacht
with a stand-by crew, powerful
engines and GPS navigation, and ...
On the Fifth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
two-and-a-half tons of marijuana
in safe storage, zip-lock bags
delivered by discreet couriers, and ...
On the Sixth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
five million dollars in government bonds,
telephone cashing facilities, plus two
accounts in the Cayman Islands, and ...
On the Seventh Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
an impatient demand to respond
to her marriage proposal, by fax
telephone or e-mail, and ...
On the Eighth Day of Christmas
nothing happened ...
On the Ninth Day of Christmas
nothing happened ...
And on the Tenth and Eleventh
nothing happened either.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
her psychopathic brother, two
Federal Agents, a subpoena,
and a foulmouthed parrot.
That's what you get, ye hobbledehoy,
that's just what you get
me bright-eyed boy;
that's what you get
(croaked the parrot)
that's what you get
for messing with ME!
So it's back, I guess,
to the homeless shelter,
to toothless Peggy, zonked-out
Ben, Stinky Pete, and the guy
who won't tell us his name.
But the parrot fits right in.
We're teaching him
to clean up his act:
"God bless us everyone",
he tells us now. Awrrkk.
-------------------------------------
Subsequently ...
On the Day after Christmas,
St Stephen's Day,
Boxing Day to the Brits,
I was rummaging through
the rubbish
(the things you find!)
and came away
with an M-60 machine gun
in full working
order, a bit oily,
but devoid of bullets.
So I called on the parrot,
now named Pedro,
and we took a cab
to West 13th Street
where these things
can so easily be arranged.
I suggested a social call
on my thin-lipped fiancee
at her townhouse
soiree, following
the private performance
at the Kennedy Center.
The enthusiasm
of dear Pedro
(we have become quite close)
caused hesitation:
how can he dislike her
more than me?
I think I shall leave
the whole affair
in his competent
claws: I can see
the headlines now --
"NY Debs Machine-Gunned
by Outraged Parrot".
There are times in a man's life
(and this is so difficult to say)
when you have to step back
and let the better parrot
take the lead; indeed
he will spatter them
to hell and gone
with his chocolate
bullets.
