Many
people wrote poetry for The Mailboat
from 1990-12, including Jerry Barton of Harkers Island. He was best known as an
electronics manufacturer who specialized in fish scopes, sextants and other
“electronic gadgetry.”
But
Jerry Barton also had a way with words. Here’s his “only slightly altered” version
of this famous Christmas poem that is preserved in the archives at the Core
Sound Waterfowl Museum & Heritage Center in Harkers Island.
(Dagnabbit.
Christmas Eve 2019 came and went before I could get it posted.…but ‘tis better late
than never…and perhaps this prolongs the glow of Christmas for you and your
family….)
Twas
the night a’fore Christmas and bright shone the moon,
The
only thing stirring was a pot of stewed loon.
The
windows were open to air out the place,
As
for lurking Game Wardens, there was nary a trace.
The
roar of an outboard fell on my ear,
To
get caught with a loon quite filled me with fear.
I
looked out the window, what frightened me more
Were
two running lights headin’ right for my shore.
“Youngerns,”
said I, “we’re in a heck of a scrape,”
The
best thing for me is to plan my escape.
Who
comes to my doorstep from out of the sea?
With
my pot full of loon, I am all set to flee.
The
engine choked off; there was a yell and a thump,
It
was jolly old Santa a’ground on a lump.
He
pulled on his waders and stepped off his boat,
Next
thing he knew, the water’s up to his throat.
He
muttered and grumbled, and I swear that he swore,
As
he staggered and stumbled out onto the shore.
His
sack full of goodies and gifts for our fun
Was
loaded with water and weighed near a ton.
He
came toward my cottage to leave off the presents
And
trod on a nest with two sleeping pheasants.
They
flew from their nest with a thunder of wings,
He
fell on his rump and broke half of his things.
He
got to his feet and dragging his sack,
He
limped to the landing, not looking back.
He
sputtered and fussed on the way to his skiff,
He
hardly could board it ’cause he was so stiff.
He
cranked on his engine till blue in the face.
When
it got started, off he did race.
The
last thing a heard as he hove out of sight,
“Hain’t
I bin punished and mommicked this night!”
I
wish he had stayed and not left so soon,
For
I’d a fix him some dodgers and a mess-a stewed loon.
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