Tuesday, December 11, 2012
'Tis two weeks before Christmas
A little under two years ago (in the middle of the night, New Year's Eve, to be exact,) I waxed poetic musing on a brief poem about "Arturo the mouse" that accompanied a bag of cookies I had picked up at our local BiLo, my select grocery store. Amused at my parody of Clement Clarke Moore's immortal work, I emailed a few verses to a few buds, attempting to enlist them in a little competition. No one bit, however, and I was left holding my own bag. Oh, well, though greatness eludes me, the work remains, and, since the Christmas season has again encroached upon all that is holy I find the need to resurrect little Arturo. Maybe this will be his year. SVG, December 2012
A Visit from Arturo
Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,
The kids were all hunting for Arturo the mouse.
We parents were, likewise, all consumed with the thought
That this Christmas might pass with our wits still uncaught.
If you wonder what's happening, you won't be alone,
For this ditty's been sent to many a crone
And, if you choose, you can take up your pen
And write out your verses from beginning to end.
Just stay hale and merry, don't be a retreater,
And copy the rhythm and attend to the meter,
And soon you will see your pen will have written
Your own Christmas verse (with a smile you'll be smitten.)
Fifty-six lines is the name of the game,
If you've not fifty-six, it just won't be the same;
And so, here it is, you've been issued the call
And you may respond or not answer at all.
Whatever you do, you know I don't care,
You may type out your verses or just sit there and stare.
More rapid than eagles, the verses they came,
If you're working on yours, you have no one to blame.
Come line! Come verse! Now meter, be merry;
If you don't like my offing, 'tis your right: Be contrary.
To the top of the page, to the top of the folder,
Now run with the ink like a looney-tunes bolder.
As old friends, when smitten, get a glint in the eye,
When they meet an assignment, and put on the try;
So up to our keyboards we all soon drew,
With dictionary, thesaurus, and St. Nicholas, too.
And when with that help we searched high and low,
To find thoughts that would cause our assignment to grow,
While we hiked up our night shirts and were just sitting down,
Across the floor rushed Arturo, to the kitchen he's bound:
He was brown, like I thought, from his head to his foot,
His demeanor was more than this writer could put,
(down on paper, I mean,) but back to the question:
Just who is Arturo, and what is his lesson?
His eyes--two brown orbs! His whiskers, were hairy?
His feet were in motion like a feather-weight's parry;
His mouth carried two teeth set right at the front,
And that's all that I saw, he was ready to punt.
From somewhere in the background, I heard a ref's whistle,
And away went Arturo like a latter-day missile.
Away to the kitchen, he flew like a flash,
Made his way to our cupboard and then to the trash--
It was then that I saw, sitting out on a shelf,
A bag of small cookies from our furry, small elf.
Chocolate chip, they were, and that's only right,
For a gift from the small guy in which all could delight.
And now that I know why Arturo was sent,
I now can go back to the quest that's my bent:
While eating what cookies the kids left behind,
I'll end up this work with a satisfied mind.
Away to my task chair while the tea-kettle whistled,
And soon stacks of paper to my out-box had bristled;
And for you, my good friends, all in internet sight,
Be it Christmas or New Years, God bless you this night.