On the night before Christmas Eve, year before last,
My to-do list spilled over, the day came too fast.
I looked at the list wondering what could get done,
Then "screw it!" I said and poured eggnog and rum.
I'd meant to have done it all, bit by bit, daily,
And spent these last hours with hot chocolate and Bailey's
But now I surveyed my kitchen with dread,
Too tired to work with the kids now in bed.
The linens were wrinkled, the china in boxes,
The gifts still unwrapped and I couldn't find stockings,
The turkey defrosted in the fridge, undressed,
And the bathrooms and floors, an eternal mess.
It was just around midnight I heard through the door
Rumbling and shuffling from under the floor.
I peeked in the kitchen, and there from the vent,
A short, pudgy gnome made his ascent!
He looked round the room and cried out in horror,
"What mess! Don't you know Christmas Eve is tomorrow?
You're hosting your family in all this debris?
And how will the fat man get to the tree?!"
"Oh, skip off!" I said, my voice growing shrill,
"Spend all my days fretting on taxes and bills,
Half my life on the 401, heading for home,
Just to sit here and take this abuse from a gnome!"
But the gnome wasn't listening, and didn't shout back,
Went back to the vent, calling into the black,
"Eh Jimmy an' Johnny an' Billy an' Brian!
If I said what I see here, you'd think I was lying!
This drunken old sow needs some help with her mess,
Make this shabby old place a bit warmer for guests!"
And up through the vent they popped into the room,
A militia of gnomes with their mops and their brooms.
Quick as a blink the imps got to working,
One scrubbing the toilet, one stuffing the turnkey.
They cleaned up the floors, shelves, windows and walls,
Wrapped all the presents and decked the halls.
They ironed the linens and washed all the dishes,
and folded the laundry, and tidied the kitchen.
It took them ten minutes! I can't understand
So much work done so quickly, by such tiny hands!
When they were finished I poured them a shot,
And asked "what's your fee?" expecting a lot.
The gnome poured more vodka and said, with a snicker,
"There's not much to eat underground in the winter...
We'll keep your house tidy and clean until spring,
If you leave, in the vents, cabbage, bread and sardines."
I agreed to their terms, for I do hate the chores,
"Merry Christmas!" they called, crawling under the floors.
So I no longer clean, but it's tricky to manage
To think through the stink of canned fish and stewed cabbage,
Some wisdom, friends toiling over Insta-ready homes:
Sober up before shaking hands with a gnome.
