‘Twas the night before Christmas and Santa’s out of jail.
He promised to capitulate and now he’s out on bail.
The vertically challenged little ones that Santa calls his elves,
Were the sneaky little scamps who filed the charge themselves.
They said it didn’t matter just how much that Santa pays,
He should never be allowed to make them work on holidays.
His trouble started early, when P.E.T.A. made it clear,
That they were going to liberate all of Santa’s deer.
The E.E.O. complained that only deer were hired
So Santa had to choose, which three you think he fired?
Not Dancer, not Donder, not Comet, not Cupid,
They’re too old to fire and Santa isn’t stupid.
And Blitzen was – well, you know what I mean,
The gay liberation would make such a scene.
So he dumped the best qualified, for that is the rule,
And replaced them at last with two cows and a mule.
The government carried poor Rudolph away.
He never again would guide Santa’s sleigh.
A radioactive nose was his deadly flaw,
They buried him deep in the state of Utah.
And Elizabeth his wife, how low could she stoop?
The night before Christmas, joined a feminist group.
The helpers were told they must now call her Liz
And in all correspondence, her title is Ms.
A committee was chosen to pick all the gifts,
With so many involved, there were quite a few tiffs.
No leather, no fur, not one single gun,
Just toys without gender and toys without fun.
And Santa no longer can be merry and gay,
For we have to be careful with that word today.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and in each edition,
The papers proclaimed the end of tradition.
His lawyers could get no last minute stay,
For OSHA of course had condemned Santa’s sleigh.
But the worst we now know, what sealed Santa’s fate,
Was mentioning the birth we all celebrate.
This is the poem that got me started writing poetry. My Sunday school teacher, Andy, and I share the same type of humor. We also share birthdays with Mark Twain; I being born exactly one hundred years to the day after Clemens.
One Sunday Andy read a poem to the class about the problems a modern Santa would have. I kept thinking of all the points this ‘unknown author’ had missed; besides, his rhythm was lousy.
Santa’s Gone P.C. was written in my mind by the time we got home from church. I just had to put it down on paper. Ruth made several copies on her computer and we began to share it with friends. Then, through the magic of e-mail, we started sharing with more of our friends and a multitude of strangers. I enjoyed all of the praise that I got back, so I just kept writing.
Back to the poem, a modern Santa wouldn’t stand a chance with all of our modern rules, regulations and laws. Can you imagine the lawsuits for trespassing and destruction of property? Those steel runners would be tough on shingles; then there would be speeding violations, large animals in the city without a permit, FAA violations, the list goes on and on.
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