Twas the day before the day before Christmas, and all thru the house, the cookies are eaten, but not by a mouse. Ole Philip was up and a’ popping those kisses, while Zenah was downing the cutout blablishes.
So now I’ve decided to make the last batch of various choices that no doubt have to last. The children and friends will be arriving tomorrow and with no sweets to feed them there will be certain sorrow. I’ll hide this new batch from Philip and Zenar, I fear Jorden Baker could care less, keeps him leaner.
The dinner is planned and most shopping is done. There’ll be ham and a turkey and I need one more run. The dining room is less than ideal for a crowd, but I’ll make it work always, someway and somehow.
There’s cleaning to do that I’ve sworn to pass off. My feet are too sore and my will is a farce. I’m cooking, I’m wrapping, I’ve made such a clatter, will someone, just someone pick up the dirt matter?
It’s hot here today, a high 76, humidity’s bad, it’s not helping my schtick. I wonder how this will affect all my cookies, my ham, and my broccoli, my hair and my schnookies. I’m running out of words that will rhyme with my verse, so I must dash away, to Winn-Dixie, with nary a curse.
Some old pictures from Christmas’s past.
Merry Christmas to all and a blessed fort night,
I miss you all