A Poem: Sort of
Twas the night before Jazz season, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; [because we duct taped the piano and cabinets closed and it DIED in the walls!!!!!]
The jerseys were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that a winning season soon would be there;
The Jazz pumpkins were nestled all snug on the porch;
While visions of a playoff spot…. nothing rhymes good with porch except scorch… so there you go.;
And Brandon in her ‘kerchief [wait what?], and I in my cap [well that part’s true],
Had just settled our brains for
a long winter’s our daily nap [school is LONG ok, don’t judge]
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash, [Actually I’m out of shape so it was more like a slow Grandma with a walker headed out to lunch]
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash [Why is there a sash on the window I don’t know, we don’t even have curtains so really this doesn’t make sense].
The moon on the breast of the
new-fallen snow [Please bless there’s not snow tomorrow],
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But Quinn Snyder and eight not-so-tiny Jazz player..ers….,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be our new coach with the crazy eye.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, [and cursed a little too] and called them by name:
“Now, Favors! now, Hayward! now Exum and Burke!
On, Booker! on, Burks! on, Kanter and Hood!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky [likely Lebron James];
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of season tickets, and Jerry Sloan too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little massive size 15 shoe..
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney John Stockton [baaaaaack from retirement!!] came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, [who knows why, maybe it’s cold in Spokane these days?]
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Jazz memorabilia he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; [ok, he doesn’t have a beard.]
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, [or smoke]
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly [actually he’s still in amazingly good shape]
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. [I could go for a PB&J right now]
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; [because I was so nervous I thought I’d pee my pants]
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, [because he never signs autographs, ha ha]
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Jazz season to all, and to all a good night!”
Happy Jazz season everyone!