'Twas the night before Repo Christmas, when all through the garage, Not a creature was stirring, not even a Dodge. The traps were hidden with great care, In hopes that St. Repo soon would be there. The children were hiding all frightened under their beds, While visions of being evicted wouldn't leave their heads. And my old lady in her curlers, and I in my hunting cap, Had just loaded cartridges into our thirty-aught-six. When out on the garbage covered lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my broken Lazy Boy to see what was the matter. Away to the cracked window I limped like an aging flash, Tore off the shutters and rested the rifle on the sash. The neighbor's were mooning on the breast of the new fallen snow, Gave the lustre of brown to objects below. When, what the hell to my bloodshot eyes should appear, But a miniature tow truck, and a deshevled looking guy, quite insincere. With a little dinky, waved it around, then peed in the snow, I knew in a NY minute it must be St. Repo. More rapid than a mother-in-law's visit, his course it came, And he shouted and cursed, and called me several nasty names! 'Hey dumb-ass! now son-of-a bitch! now bastard! Get your butt out here, you offspring of a Saint Bernard! ' To the broken boards on the porch! to the front door! He attached a chain and pulled with his truck - he was hardcore! As burning rubber that before the repo man flies, When he meets with an obstacle, to it he brings its demise. So up to the house and then the garage his tow truck flew, Emptied the whole place out and took the Dodge too. And then, in a stern move, I heard on the roof, The running and stomping of this low-life goof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Repo came with a bound. He was dressed all in bear fur, from his fat head to his foot, And his clothes were all smelling with moth balls and soot. A bundle of nerves he had flung on our backs, And he looked like the grim reaper, just opening his death pack. His eyes how they were sullen! his pimples how dreary, His cheeks were like rose thorns, his nose ran like Lake Erie. His encrusted mouth was drawn up like a compound bow, And the beard on his chin was as dirty as the snow. The stump of a stogie he held tick-tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled our heads like a funeral wreath. He had an aging face and a beer gut, That shook when he snickered, like a two-bit slut. He was rude and obnoxious, quite stuck on himself, And I cringed when I saw him, threw-up on myself. A squint of his eye and flip of his middle finger, Soon gave my family and I a reason to no longer linger. He spoke not another word, but went hell-bent to work, And emptied his pockets of lint, then called me a jerk-off. And sticking his finger up his nose; And giving a discourteous nod, over to the door he dove. He sprang to his tow truck, to his horsepower gave the gas, And away like a bat outta hell he drove, right to the by-pass. But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight, 'Happy Un-Christmas to all, and to all a good fright! ' '2008' RLS