A Visit From St. Polokin

badsanta

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and on the polo court,
Not a single player was stirring, not a single guy in jorts;
The mallets were all hung in the chain link with care,
In hopes that polo would soon resume there;
The polo girls and boys were sleeping on beds
With visions of tourney wins dancing in their heads.

And I woke up early to prepare for my day,
Looking at the time and saying “that’s cray,”
When out from the stoop arose such a clatter,
I thought it might be a bum, emptying his bladder.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Not even a moment to re-groom my stash.

The lights on the street and the new fallen rain
Gave just enough light to see clear and plain,
When what should appear to my wondering eye,
But a sleigh made of PBR cans and a greasy looking guy.

He had on his head a beanie from 1984,
And on his denim vest a button for Cure,
His pants were tight fitting, his shoes All Star brand,
His eyes hid by sunglasses and a beer in his hand,
From my window I smelled a mix of Natty Bo and Gin
And knew in a moment it was old St. Polokin.

More rapid than The Beavers his club yes they came,
And he shit talked and shouted, and called me some names,
“Hey noob, hey slowski, hey bad polo bloggist!
On Tuesday you acted like you didn’t know what NAH Is?!”

And before I could warn him to stop his rude call,
He bounded up the steps and jumped up my walls,
As I drew in my head, and was turning around
He came in through my mail slot, (as bad as that sounds).

Now closer I saw that he had so many tattoos,
And smelled like a mix of onions and booze,
A bundle of equipment he had on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His moustache was placed with ironic wax,
His hair was a shambles, his shaving gone lax.

I said nothing to him, which was quite good,
For he set to his work just as I knew he would.
He put out new mallets, a new helmet and balls,
He gave me a rule book that explained every call.

But with the last gift he paused before setting it down,
And looked at me blankly, no smile or frown,
He said “Crusher, I’m afraid I can’t give you it all,
I had a bike here for you, but you’re much too damned small.”

So he put it away and went out the front door,
Back to his PBR sleigh, drinking a few more,
And away he flew like a shot from Koyo’s mallet
(Beaning a light pole while he was at it),
But I heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight—
“3-2-1 to all, and to all a good night!”

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