This year’s Christmas recitation.
Paddy, not quite in the mood for the mass,
informed his wife, Marge, “I’ll give this Sunday a pass.
For a grand Christmas tree I’ll go out and search,
all decked off so fine, set in front of the church.”
Replied Marge, “You? A good tree? Like the one from last year?
‘Twas bent, had no top and so scruffily bare.
I had to fetch glue and drill holes through the trunk
to jam in more boughs because, frankly, it stunk.”
“A fella can do good for both the town and hia soul,
all in one go, sure, it’s now my double goal!
It’s nearly a saint’s job!” Paddy then sighed,
left with axe, wood sled, and his pony, Clyde.
On the way to the woods, the gulch hill he ascended,
up past the church but espied, barely suspended,
a dozen empty oil drums lodged on old rotten sticks
and about to let go, lest they somehow got fixed.
“I’ll cut some fresh poles and do a good deed today,
before someone gets hurt in a terrible way.”
Looking up, nodding piously and with a diffident air.
“The Lord will like that,” he murmured in prayer.
When he got to the woods, the first thing that he did,
was to cut twelve stout sticks and lash them to the sled.
He felt quite satisfied, a smug look on his face:
not just one good deed, but two in this case.
A bit further in he found a fine fir:
“Such a grand specimen so I’m bringing home her!
Now I knows that’s not some good tree I did find.
I’ll prove my Marge wrong, by the sweet dancin’ dyne!”
To his chagrin, he discovered it was too big for the sled.
But Paddy was one who used all the brains in his head.
He came back out and “borrowed” without thinking twice
one of Biddy Quinn’s sleds, “She’s got two, so that’s nice.”
He dragged it back with Clyde hitched, and after a while
had the tree across two sleds, end to end, single file.
But when he tried to get going, another truth he did face:
it was too much for Clyde and was stuck fast in place.
So back he went and also “borrowed” Biddy Quinn’s old grey mare,
hitched her up too, now they were a pair.
Mare and Clyde pulled in tandem from the front with great might.
Paddy pushed from behind with all his strength and some spite.
His knees they fair buckled as he shoved and he strained,
but finally, inch by inch, some progress they gained.
‘Til they crested the hilltop overlooking the church,
fully spent, Paddy eyed an old stump of birch.
For chocks he fetched stones, and, then with great care,
wedged them under the runners so they’d stay right there.
He unhitched mare and Clyde and plopped down on the stump.
He’d only just caught his breath when, with a yell, up he jumped.
Two cold and wet hands had grabbed him by the neck.
He spun right around, his calm demeanour now wrecked.
Expecting the Virgin Mary or the Holy Ghost standing there,
no ’twas old Biddy Quinn, with a murderous glare.
“Sacred St.Theresa! You scared me half to death!
I just needed your mare and your sled for a bit.
I’d’a brought them right back,” he said with bowed head,
“Doing a good Christian deed,” but then chaos spread.
“Bring my stuff back now!” old Biddy did shout,
startling Clyde and the mare, and they fretted about,
while jumping and whinnying and kicking their hocks,
bumped into the sleds and dislodged the chocks.
Biddy lurched to one side with a scream loud and shrill,
for the sleds had begun trundling right down the hill!
Along the way they smashed into the whole oil drum pile,
and the works of it thundered on down the hill, half a mile.
Toward the church, where the mass was now going strong,
the sleds picked up steam as they hurtled along.
Charging like the devil’s own locomotive from hell,
bearing down on the faithful and the Sunday bell.
The barrels bounced, grinded and rolled with an unholy sound,
smashed Skipper Jack’s fence right into the ground.
The sleds launched in the air with breathtaking power
and like Thor’s own great hammer it clipped the bell tower..
This set the bell tolling like it was Judgment Day,
where, inside, the community had gathered to pray.
To listen close to the sermon had been their intent,
of the message of hope and need to repent.
For next week was the coming of the Saviour true,
but a clatter grew louder and much closer too!
Eleven barrels hit the church with sheer brutalization,
sending waves of pure terror through the whole congregation.
By now, Father Vincent, quite shaken indeed,
dropped to his knees and, for mercy, did plead.
An old stray tomcat, with a demonic shriek,
tumbled down from the rafters and clawed him on the cheek.
No sooner had the calamitous racket died down
when the twelfth barrel flew through the door on rebound.
It made quite the bull’s-eye as it sailed through the air,
smashed the font, and holy water got splashed everywhere.
Skipper Jack, Sunday Missal held close to his breast,
stood up, and intoned, “it’s the Sweet Saviour blest.
I never came for baptism, but oh, now mind you,
I s’pose everyone’s saved, albeit soggy too”.
Then Father Vincent led all hands outside.
Amid the rumble of hoofbeats, there, they all spied
Paddy on Clyde, with the mare close behind,
rode by Biddy, shouting things that were a bit less than kind.
Clyde sidestepped an oil drum and briefly did stumble
knocking Paddy asunder and to the ground he did tumble.
Rolling onto his back to avoid flailing hoofs
make a guess what he saw perched way up on the roof?
The wind knocked out of him, he pointed up high,
to his tree on the church roof, outlined against the sky.
Father Vincent crossed himself and muttered a prayer,
“Lord, only you could put a Christmas tree there!”
“Such a magnificent sight!” Marge then cried out,
“But It was not Our Lord’s doing, but still a miracle, no doubt!”
“But how’ll he string lights on that tree up so high?”
inquired Skipper Jack with a squint of his eye.
Said Marge “It is best for someone to ensure
that a padlock be placed on the fire hall doors.
The ladder truck is the next thing that Paddy will borrow,
to finish off what he started. Wait and see tomorrow!”
“I guess I was wrong for it is plain for to see,
in spite of himself Paddy cut one dandy tree!”
And so, with his tree planted firmly upon the church dome.
Paddy might’f missed Mass, but he sure brought Christmas home!
Duck? Starfish? But...23 
