It was the leanest Christmas in a long string
Of lean Christmases. Mama made us stay up
All night that Christmas Eve. She was too poor
To buy the soap powder to wash our sheets,
And we always wet our beds on Christmas Eve.
It was the year that Mama cooked a
Little field mouse for our Christmas Meal.
She stuffed it with an acorn.
As I recall, I got a leg.
Jennie got the liver and the gizzard.
It was the year that Mama sent us kids into the town
To beat up every boy and girl we could find;
To steal from every store;
To vandalize the churches.
Roscoe, the Town Cop, couldn’t keep up.
Every five minutes his pager would sound.
It’s one of them Thompson kids!
Someone would scream.
We were like the Biblical Plague of locusts that year.
You see, we had a coal burning stove,
And we were in great need of coal, and
Mama truly believed that Santa Claus
Brought coal to bad little boys and girls.
Mama worked the Christmas Eve shift
At Bob’s IGA Market, because nobody else would.
She made enough money to buy us ten kids
A Christmas Present. Just one.
We took turns opening it.
We took turns acting surprised.
It was a lump of coal. Mama used it
To cook the Christmas Mouse.
Papa? Naw, Papa didn’t visit for supper
On that Christmas Night. Mama would of
Whupped his ass.
That kind of Christmas.
Mama gave all us kids hugs when she
Put us to bed on Christmas Night.
It had been quite a day.
We were all stuffed with Christmas Mouse
And hard candy shoplifted from Bob’s Market.
Everybody got a hug, because hugs were free.
She was a hugging-Mama. That kind of Mama.
Best Mama I ever knew.
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