After Christmas

Santa filled the stockings,
And then he turned around.
And said to all his rein-deers,
Get out and hit high ground.

We've gone beyond the longitude,
My head is in a swim.
No more can I see clearly,
My eyes are getting dim.

Giddy-up that...you rascals,
Let hoof-prints raise the foam.
We are hours late already,
And I Am for-getting home.

Beyond the shores of Sicily,
The reins were dangling free.
And in the twinkling of an eye,
He passed the Zider-Zee.

And there before he knew it,
Stood the great white cliffs of Dover.
And mummies waved from Egypt,
As he was passing over.

And would you ever think-it,
The boys of Uncle Sam.
Were boomer-ranging after,
The troops of Vietnam?

The clouds took on a density,
Air-pockets made it jerky.
The ladies lifted off their veils,
As he went over Turkey.

There upon the Arab plain,
With little thought...nor heeding,
The yellow dust was circling round,
Their camels were stampeding.

Down along the corner edge,
Tall mountains cut the loam.
Cold temperatures sort of drifted in,
Like those he had at home.

Through ice-bergs and a glare of white,
The sleigh and deer shot forth.
And there over the barren winter-land,
They spotted the pole...up north.


E.P. 1908 - 1989


Maybe

"The ten-tribes live somewhere up around the North-Pole where Santa Claus lives...it must be true." E.P.