December 28, 2007

Poem: The week after Christmas

’Twas the week after ChristmasAnd all through the townNot a person was smokingNot a butt to be found; The panhandlers were aboutOpen-palmed with a stareIn the hopes that the deep-pocketed Soon would be there; The elected were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of beggars danced in their heads; And Dant in his kerchief, and Jerry in his cap, Had just settled in for a long smoking rap; When out in the bars there arose such a stench, The judge sprang from his bed and ambled to the bench; Away to the scene reporters flew like a flash, While bar owners cried, “Ah, here comes the cash;” The people on the eve of this new smoking ban, Decided to fire up despite Hizzoner’s plan; When, what to his wondering eyes should appear, But an army of indigents, and tourists gripped with fear; With the little old man, standing too close to the door, A tourist grabbed his cell and called cops to the store; Arrested for panhandling, the papers will say, Then he hollered, and moaned, and was taken away; “Now homeless, we love you, don’t be misinformed,We’re only protecting visitors from your scorn;” And meanwhile, away in the clubs of downtown, The people are still smoking, and cursing this damn town.