A Visit from Old Pilgrim
Charles Suddeth
Clement Clarke Moore, I do apologize. I just couldn’t resist.
Twas the night before Thanksgiving, when all through the hut
Not a critter was awake, not even a mutt;
The dishes were slung by the chimney so bare,
In hopes that Old Pilgrim soon might be there;
The kiddies were all tucked in their sleeping bags;
While stories of goodies fluttered like red flags;
And my wife in her nightie, and I with my booze,
Had just crawled into the sack for a good long snooze,
But out on the street there came such a god-awful crash,
I leapt from my couch and ran like a flash,
Away to the bedroom window I surely did go,
Opened the drapes and blinds to see the show,
A full moon on the cusps of ice-laden snow,
Gave a high-noon shine to objects aglow,
But to my fog-laden old eyes I did see,
A little ole cart and eight gobbling turkeys,
With a gnarled old driver so proper and grim,
I knew without doubt it must be Old Pilgrim.
More bumbling than buzzards, his turkeys came,
As he choked and yelled and called them by name,
“Now, Tommie! Now Gobbler! Now Scrabbler and Fowler!
On, Scratcher! On Ajax! On, Zinnia and Growler!
Go over the front porch, go over the back wall,
So fly away! Fly away! Fly away yall!”
Now trees before tornados they do lie,
When they meet with such force they do fly;
So upon the roof they did soar with vim,
With a food-laden cart and even Old Pilgrim—
And then in an instant I heard with great awe,
The scratching and screeching of each little claw.
As I turned my head and gazed into the room,
Out of the fireplace Old Pilgrim came with a boom.
He wore homespun except for each ragged shoe,
His clothes were grimy and stained from my view.
A bundle of veggies did hang down his back,
He looked just like a hawker showing off his sack.
How sad his eyes—they cried! His ears looked all bashed,
His cheeks were bloodshot, his nose all mashed.
His puckered mouth was dried up and old,
And his whiskers were white-speckled mold,
The remains of a pipe stuck out of his mouth,
The smoke circled his head and headed south,
His face was weathered, and huge was his gut
Which shook when he snorted inside of my hut.
He was gaunt and lean, a sourpuss of a man,
And I gagged as I beheld him and his tan.
A touch of evil eye and a mean, old scowl
Made me want to get up and howl,
He opened not his mouth but tended to his job,
Filled all of our bowls, and swiveled with a sob,
With a clenched fist beside his bleary snout,
And with nary a nod, up the chimney he went out;
He leaped to his cart, and to his team he did yell,
And up in the air they did fly like birds of the dell.
But I heard him grumble before he went into the night,
“Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all a fine night.”
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