The bard of the Bayou St John’s annual holiday poem
Tight-ends of Comfort and Joy
‘Twas the night before Christmas in Faubourg-St. John
And not a creature was stirring, off the bayou or on—
Not a tweet from a bird, not a flick from a fish,
Not a twitter through cable or satellite dish.
The cowboy whose dog-leash had lassoed the gator,
The special-needs ducklings whose meals, fully catered,
Were crashed by the nutria looting our shores,
The half-sunken castaway crafts without oars,
The boards that neglected to clear the storm drain
Of Bayou-St. John during record-high rains,
The jobless who’d jump at this no-brainer gig,
And folks with the virus traced back to the pig:
All of them dreamt on this Christmas Eve Night
Of fifty-three men dressed in black and gold tights.
Then just as I swallow some milk and Lunesta
And climb into bed for a long winter’s rest, a
Chanting arises outside my front gate
So I fly down the stairwell—and who should await?
It’s a Who-ville of Who-Dats—Who-Elvis, Who-Moses,
The Gris-Gris- and Whistle-Man striking Who-poses,
Who-Voo-doo-, Parade-, Drag-, and Debutante-Queens,
But every last one shares a common Who-theme:
These Who Dats who buy votive candles at Rouse’s,
Who bury St. Joseph to help sell their houses,
Who stand by their home-team from season to season
Are led by a Faith that defies simple reason.
On St. Joseph’s altars along St. John’s banks,
They lay out their famous who-offerings of thanks:
Polenta, bread pudding, Shrimp Creole, Red beans,
And hundreds of dishes from different cuisines,
Then pray for the Long-shots, their signature strength
(Remember these Who Dats were once called the Aints!)
Beseeching the Saint of Lost Causes, Who-Jude
To deliver lost Woods with the escorts he wooed;
To appeal on be-half of mom Kate plus her Eight
Reduced by Dad Jon and his multiple mates;
To save Luv-guv Sanford in hot Buenos Aires
With Ave Marias (known here as Hail Marys).
They pray for the people who’ve grown so shortsighted
By fame that they’d dine with the Pres uninvited,
Or orchestrate stunts where balloons go adrift,
Or seize center-stage from that cute Taylor Swift.
But just as they pause for a moment of silence
The prayer-circle suddenly shakes with such violence,
Their bids for divine interventions fall flat!
And they jump from their huddle, demanding, “Who Dat?”
Their stage has been ambushed by Cowboys in cleats—
And a Grinch has dealt Who-ville its single defeat!
“Do you hear what I hear?” asks a Who in the night.
Then, Hark! With a Tail-back as big as a kite
Come Tight Ends of Comfort and Joy softly tingling;
Meachem and Marques, Pierre and Bell jingling;
In the lane are a Harper and Sharper a-listenin’;
In the meadow’s a Red-Nose-tackle a-glistenin’.
“Do you see what I see?” asks a little Who-child.
And, lo, Guards and Centers have been reconciled!
“Be, Joyful,” they cry, “All ye nation–arise!”
And forthwith a Starship streaks down from the skies,
Three Wise Men—Brees, Payton, and Williams—on hand;
“Up, Blitzers! On, Blockers! Up, up!” they command,
And into the Stardust flies Destiny’s Team
Towards the epic homestretch of their Superbowl Dream.
© Stephany Lyman New Orleans, 24 December 2009