A Hurricane Ruined Our Christmas
by Michael M. Homan
Dearest Santa soon
you'll be riding in your sleigh,
but when you come to blue-tarped-roofs
you’d ought to stay away.
Fair New Orleans is not safe
and we’re afraid you must restrain,
for there’s asbestos dust and toxic mold
where sounds of jazz once reigned.
Our roof it leaks, our house is racked
our chimney has decayed,
and wafting smells of putrid fridges
scare even birds away.
Breathing masks won’t fit you Santa
for your beard is much too full,
so you’d better use the mail
for filling stockings up with coal.
A “heck of job” did Brownie
a fashion god while thousands weeped,
and some corrupt engineers
claimed pylons were plenty deep.
And don’t look to busses for salvation
if your reindeer wind up shot,
and then some Cajun in the bayou
puts the carcass in a gumbo pot.
The boys and girls of the Gulf Coast
are scattered throughout the land,
and FEMA checks don’t buy good gifts
so you need to change your plan.
Because a hurricane ruined our Christmas
and we’ll miss you Santa Clause,
and though the Big Easy’s hard for now
please come back for the Mardi Gras.