‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the house were gifts for the grandkids, but nothing in the fridge, not a morsel for me or a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Our aging Maltese was nestled all snug in our bed, while visions of doggie treats danced in her head. And Bonnie on her side with my cold feet nearby, Bitsy in between us, a sex-free continental divide.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I threw Bitsy off the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window she flew like a flash, toss an 8-pound Maltese and you’re sure to see a smash.

The moon on the breast of the newly fallen snow gave luster to the purple of my newly-stubbed toe. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a man with reindeer yelling, “Happy Jewish New Year!”

The beard on his chin was as white as snow. Was this Uncle Moe or just some John Doe? It could be St. Nick, but we still had a week to go.

He looked kinda familiar with that twinkle in his eye. I knew this was no rabbi; he was eating a ham with mayo on rye.

Then he coughed and wheezed and shouted out deer names, “Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Pincus and Vixen! On, Murray! On, Izzy!” Oy, these names he was mix’n.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with a sleigh full of toys, and a guy who was either St. Nick or some wandering Jew.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, the guy and the reindeer, this wasn’t a goof. 

With prancing and pawing of each little hoof, I checked my homeowners’ policy to see if I made a claim, what was my burden of proof?

Down the chimney he landed with a bound; the trip would be easier if he’d just slim down. Dressed all in black from his head to his foot, this wasn’t Uncle Moe or John Doe — for only St. Nick could look so good wearing ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back reminded me of when I asked for a new watch but instead got a used tie rack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, probably from hitting the sherry. He had a broad face and a little round belly, but between soot and the sweat, his dark suit was right smelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf. When he made a move toward the fridge, I said, “Go ahead, help yourself.” With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head, he made himself a peanut butter and jelly, finishing off the rye bread.

As he put the last gift right under our tree, I knew it was time to give him the third degree. “If you really are Santa, surely you know you’ve come early.” He replied, “I know that, and don’t call me Shirley.”

He said it was time to break religious taboos, so the week before Christmas he’d bring gifts to all the Jews.

Then he sprang to his sleigh and away they all flew, without even a thank you or a how do you do? But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and next week leave on a light!”