17. The Christmas Spirit

 'tis the morning of christmas and through d.s.d. from one end to t'other no one can you see the silence is shattered at five after nine the first clerk reporting is almost on time just in from a party came s/sgt bell he's been out carousing and sure looks like .... he takes out his work and sits down to the task but ere he commences he pulls out a flask and raises his spirits right up to the sky but those in the bottle are now nearly dry except for the snoring 'tis quiet again till leo comes in about ten after ten and finds our dear harry stretched out on the floor with his head holding open the cableroom door now leo is not a teetotaller quite and conceived to arrange for a glorious night of wining and dining 'twas really no trouble but everything now looks as if it were double the officer on duty now drops in to say that he sees no reason to be here today if somebody wants him he'll be at his home where no one can reach him - he hasn't a phone - along about noon pete arrives with a crock and shortly the office is starting to rock as clerks who are now really out in full bloom are merrily dancing all over the room the dancers subside and relax on the floor till labonte comes staggering in through the door he shouts at the clerks till they're up on their feet and promptly decides it would make things complete if they got together - the best notion yet - with four of them here they can make a quartette with reckless abandon it doesn't take long for them to break out in melodious (?) song the strains of sweet adeline float through the air the din is terrific but nobody cares the singsong is over with adieus truly said harry and leo go home and to bed in wavers benny just one hour late with a long tale of woe much too sad to relate his eyes are all bloodshot and the bags so defined you can tell he's been having a wonderful time he weaves cross the room and slumps down in a chair there's no need to mention he's slumbering there anon comes the sound of hysterical glee from out in the hallway now who can that be why it's dear little mary she works in five ten and must have been hitting the bottle again she storms in the room and then throws on the floor a huge batch of cables two hundred or more frank lurches in and - you'll ne'er believe this - he promptly gives mary a big juicy kiss now mary is quite a respectable lass so knocks our poor frankie right square on his fanny not willing to take this assault sitting down he picks himself up and displaying a frown proceeds to chase mary all over the floor as rowe right on time staggers in through the door he pulls out a bottle of good christmas cheer and meets frank and mary who are now in high gear there's a crash and a tangle of torsos and limbs but he clings to the bottle with vengeance so grim that although he is down and for a loss has been tossed the bottle is safe not a drop has been lost just a couple of rounds and the "baby" is dead and a crazy idea comes into pete's head if they take all the cables now strewn on the floor and add all the files tucked away in the drawers they can make a swell fire to warm up the place and get rid of some stuff that has been a disgrace to the office since first it was founded last year and bring joy to the officers they hold so dear they all start to work and though still in a daze they soon have created so merry a blaze that they take pete's old desk that's an eyesore to all to add to the fire - brass handles and all - the fire has caused an unbearable heat so they all grab their coats and then beat a retreat right down to the sidewalk and just stand around to watch the whole building burn down to the ground


Comments:  Written during World War II, this poem is my personal favorite.  It is most effective, if read aloud.  Try it!

In this poem, Dad adopted the rhythm of the much-loved "A Visit from St Nicholas," by Clement Clarke Moore, but wrote in the style of Archy, a fictional cockroach columnist, who typed by jumping from key to key.  It was impossible, of course, for Archy to hold down the shift key, so his entire output was without capital letters, but also without punctuation (which latter I attribute to saving his energy for the "important stuff").  Dad included a little punctuation, as you can see.

D.S.D. was the branch of the Canadian Ministry of National Defence to which my Dad was attached during the early years of World War II.  (This may have been a signals or communications unit.)  My Dad's nickname was "Pete," thus he wrote himself into the tale.

16. Lines Written at the Request of BETTY

I long to feel you near me,
To caress your silken hair,
To slip my arm about your waist
And tell you that I care.

I yearn to take you in my arms
And crush you to my chest,
To feel the heavy rhythm
Of your palpitating breast.

I crave the heavenly nectar
Of your soul-destroying kiss,
To live though for a moment
In an ecstasy of bliss.

Alas, I am rejected
For you hold no answering flame,
With a chap like Jim so handy
You are not the one to blame.

Comments:  This poem was written during World War II.  The "Jim" of the poem was Jimmy Fishbourne, who later became my Father's "best man."  Betty was Jimmy's bride.

15. Lines Written after Reading "The Stray Lamb" by Thorne Smith

I fain would be a little bird
And flit amongst the trees,
I'd flit and fly and dive and swoop
And live a life of ease.

I'd sit upon your window sill
And sing a cheery song,
And when at night you go to bed
I too would go along.

Who wants to be a little bird
And flit amongst the trees?
With you, my dear, so near at hand
Who wants a life of ease?

Comments:  I do hope that "my dear" was my mother!

Thorne Smith was an American author best known for the three "Topper" books. In his Wikipedia entry, "The Stray Lamb" (1929) is described thusly:  Mild-mannered investment banker, cuckold, and dipsomaniac T. Lawrence Lamb gains perspective on the human condition during a series of mysterious transformations into various animal forms. ... This novel is included with "Turnabout" and "Rain in the Doorway" in "The Thorne Smith 3-Decker" (Sun Dial Press, 1933).

14. The Morning After

'Tis the day after Christmas and all through the flat
Not a creature is stirring, not even the cat.
The tree once displayed to the people who pass
Is now but a shambles of tinsel and glass.
The bright coloured playthings just fresh from the store
Lie battered and broken all over the floor.
The fifteen-pound turkey, so fat and so sleek
Is going to be used to make soup all next week.
And where are the dishes?  Well, where do you think?
As high as a mountain, they're piled in the sink.
My head aches like fury, my stomach complains,
My body is tortured with aches and with pains.
Though Christmastime brings all its good will and cheer,
I'm glad that it only comes once every year.


Comments:  With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore!  This is another poem that is out-of-time, with respect to our current calendar, but it's the next one in my Dad's collection.  (I disclaim all knowledge of cat or broken toys.)

13. Amateur Night, or Our Church Puts On a Play

It seemed a good idea just about six weeks ago,
For us to stage a play or two and make a little dough.
We chose a bunch of guys and gals to play the different parts,
We practiced and we practiced till we knew the thing by heart.

Then came the night, the grand premiere was just about to start,
The actors paced the dressing room, each one reviewed his part.
The lights went up, the curtain rose, a hush came o'er the place,
The Heroine tripped on the stage, and fell flat on her face.

The Hero hastened to her side, so quickly did he fly,
He slipped upon the well-waxed floor and gaily sailed right by.
We settled down to business then to do the play just right,
But nearly all the actresses were suffering from fright.

We missed our cues, forgot our lines, and stumbled on the stage,
Our quiet voiced director had by now worked up a rage.
One incident that brought a roar of laughter from the crowd:
The prompter stepped out on the stage and read the play aloud.

The Hero and the Villain fought to prove who was the boss.
The overanxious Villain threw the Hero for a loss.
The Father with a shotgun chased the Hero off the farm.
The Heroine with loving eyes swooned in the Villain's arms.

When the play was over, we came out to take a bow.
Someone in the back row shouted, "Let 'em have it now."
The air was thick with rotten fruit and age-old eggs to boot.
An overripe tomato caught the Hero on the snoot.

Though we made a lot of blunders and we muffed our lines a bit,
The play was quite a big success, it really was a hit.
We cared not for our victory or merits we had won.
To us the play had merely been a lot of good clean fun.

12. Be Strong and Work

When others falter by the way Beneath the heavy load,
Or take "time out" to stop and play
Along the dismal road,
Then square your shoulders with a grin
And lift the banner high,
It's up - and on - and on to win,
Our spirit must not die.

Let weaklings shirk the task at hand
And lay aside their oar,
For like a house upon the sand,
They're rotten at the core.
Give us the men with hearts of steel,
The ones who never fail
To put their shoulder to the wheel,
For them God shall prevail.

Comments: This early-World War II poem reflects Dad's upbringing during the Great Depression. By this time, he was likely training soldiers at Camp Petawawa, Ontario.

The photo is from iStockphoto, and shows Depression-era Cincinnati, OH.

11. Valentines

I often wonder why it is, when we are very young,
We buy a batch of valentines that we will send among
Our little friends both boys and girls with no discerning eye.
But we a little older grow, and larger ones we buy,
To give to some one special girl our heart has set upon,
Be she a dainty damsel fair or hearty Amazon.
But as our love grows warmer and courting really starts,
We buy her chocolates once a year in boxes shaped like hearts.
And when the nuptial knot is tied, unless we've been misled,
We bring her posies every year, quite likely roses red.
And as the evercircling years roll on upon their way,
There's one thing that will never change, though youth has passed away.
We'll love her at the twilight of life, as at the noon,
Though fifty years of married life have passed since honeymoon.
And when we've reached that grand old age when we are ninety-nine,
We'll not forget to take her home - a lovely valentine.

Comments:  My Dad wrote this poem when he was about twenty.  He had already met my Mother and decided that she was "the girl for me."  They had been married for sixty-three years when he died - not at ninety-nine, but at eighty-nine.  And, every year, he gave Mother a beautiful valentine.