‘Twas the night before Christmas, in the old German house,
Nothing was moving, not even Osu while he dreamt of chasing Alaskan grouse;
The ugly ‘made in China’ stockings weren’t dangled with any particular care,
For the crumbly German walls were too weak the weight to bear;
The babies, they were nestled all snug in mommy’s womb,
While sounds of Christmastime bounced ‘round their darkened room;
And momma in her muumuu, and I in my back brace,
Had just plopped down, thankful for the day’s slowing pace,
When out on the street did we hear such a sound,
I eased up out of bed so I could take a look around;
Up to the window I stumbled over a bump,
Stubbed my darn toe while tripping over Osu’s body lump.
The moon, partially hidden behind dark clouds dropping wet snow,
For this was Germany, land of weather expectations that are incredibly low;
When, what to my glazed-over eyes did appear,
But a sausage-shaped sleigh being led by eight flying beers!
With a toasty-looking driver, his accent so thick,
I figured it out, it was that jolly old German, the flying Herr Dick.
Faster than the fall of Poland, his courses they came,
And he belched and he bellowed and called them by their Catholic-given name;
“Now Helmut! Now Dolf! Now Heinie! Now Fritz!
On Gretel! On Uta! On Hildegard! On Frau Giggleschnitz!
To the top of the Zugspitze, to the top of the Berlin Wall,
Macht Schnell! Macht Schnell!
Vee must get beer to all!
As dry hops that before the Alps Autumn Föhn fly,
When they meet with a rock wall, turn elsewhere and say goodbye;
So up to the house these stupid beers flew,
Towing a ridiculous sausage straddled by Herr Dick in a leather Christmas tutu.
And then, a bit of tinkling, I did hear above my head,
Was it the breaking of a beer glass or Herr Dick peeing instead?;
As I moved from the window and was spinning around,
Through the ceiling came Herr Dick, having put on some pounds.
He was dressed in an FC Bayern Kit from his shoulders to his feet,
Another blowhard football fan, oh boy, what a treat;
A crate of Augustiner he held under each arm,
In his left hand a bottle opener shaped like German football legend Olli Kahn.
His eyes -- how they were bloodshot! His breath, oh so scary!
Smelling like strong egg nog, his nose redder than a Maraschino Cherry!
His toothless tiny mouth was all puckered up like an O,
the beard on his chin still containing frozen vomit mixed with snow.
The end of a bratwurst still stuck in his matted hair,
bright yellow mustard dripping to his shoulder, on to my antique chair.
He had a pudgy face and a gigantic beer belly,
That moved like wobbly head cheese at the local corner deli.
He was smelly and dirty, but still a happy ‘ol Mensch,
And I couldn’t help but chuckle, then gag, after smelling his stench.
A grab of his crotch and a creepy long leer,
Told me that this Herr Dick had had one too many beers.
He uttered not a word, but got straight to the task,
Filled all the oaken kegs and empty bottles, then he turned way too fast;
And now finding himself down on the cold hardwood floor,
He got to his knees and slowly scooted towards the front door.
Hailing his team with a burp and a fart,
He and the sausage-shaped sleigh pulled by flying beer mugs did depart
But I heard him slur as the sausage twisted out of sight,
“Beery ChristMaß to all, and I really doubt that I’ll remember much from this night!”
