REDNECK PERSPECTIVE: St. Blythe would soon be there

By on December 16, 2014

’Twas the night before Christmas in my trailer house,

I was doing bourbon shots and unbuttoning Blythe’s blouse;

Her stockings were nylon, I removed them with care,

In hopes that black lace soon would be there!

Blythe’s eyes – how they twinkled! Her skin like milk,

Under her blouse was a hint of black silk!

The stump of a pipe she held tight in her teeth,

And the smoke it smelled like good Hawaiian reef;

Her boots were leather, she sure was a looker,

The skirt that she wore made her look like a hooker;

Her $20,000 implants contrast with her tight belly,

And they shook when she laughed like a bowl full of jelly;

A good way to spend Christmas Eve, anda this is fact,

Is with Blythe Winters-Paulson, vice president of ethics

with Goldman and Sachs;

She said, “I have an idea, before we make all this sweat,

Let’s go to the airport and climb on my Lear jet.”

We gassed up the jet, got ready to leave,

To give gifts to the needy on Christmas Eve;

A jet is much warmer to ride than a sled,

We flew to the West Bank, to people well bred;

We lit on roofs all through the Pines,

Instead of cookies for Santa they left rare cheese and fine wines;

The children were nestled with nannies to serve,

Should they want some milk or a French d’oeuvre;

No stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In the Pines, stockings are passé and really quite square;

But iPads were open to undisclosed Cayman accounts,

Blythe typed in some numbers and deposited secret amounts;

I looked over her shoulder, the figures were giant,

“Don’t worry.” she said. “I’ll add 30 percent and charge it all to a client.”

To some she gave options, some others got stocks,

I used to think I was lucky if I got some socks;

‘What of my neighbors,’ I said with concern,

“Those from Hog Island you cannot spurn.”

She looked at me with a condescending smile,

The way wealthy folks address those from Hog Isle;

“Hog Islanders are simple and happy, not needy,

If I give them more they’ll just become greedy;

They have all they want: beer, guns and pickups that roar,

It’s hedge funders and bankers that always need more.”

I say, “Christmas is about getting more stuff!

Trucks, beer or guns, there is never enough;

“If you want me to indulge you in Hog Island pleasure,

You better loosen up on your Christmas Eve treasure.”

Blythe relented at last so to Hog Island we flew,

A banker Santa in a Lear jet out in the blue;

To young and old we gave guns, beer and mud flaps,

Pork ribs and bacon and custom gas caps;

So bankers got cash to add to their funds,

Hog Island got beer and good boys got guns!

And she exclaimed as we roared out of sight,

Nothing beats a Hog Island man on a Lear jet at night!

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