Saint Ranch Hand

Twas the night before smokin'
And all thru the home
Not a rib rack was stirrin'
Not even a bone.

The ribs had been dry rubbed
By the pit apprentice with care
In hopes that a "smoke ring"
Would soon be there.

The family was nestled
All snug in their beds
With visions of Saint Ranch Hand
Dancing in their heads.

And the "boss" in her kerchief
And the fat boy in his cap
Had just settled in
For a long pre-bbq nap.

When out on the lawn
There arose such a clatter
The meat burning miscreant
Sprang from his bed to see what was the matter?

Away to the window
The dry-rub seasoning wannabe flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the
(47 col' beers consumed before beddy-bye time?)

The moon on the breast of the seasoned oak row
Gave lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When what to rum-dum wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny white tail deer?

As the dry leaves before the wild hurricane flew
Them acorn munchers arrived like an allergy "ACHOO"!

Drawing in my head
And turning around
Down the smoker stack came
Saint Ranch Hand with a bound.

Smoke encircled his head like a fireplace wreath
And one easily envisioned cooked pig in his teeth?

He had a round face
And a huge rotund seat
That belied his position
That he didn't eat steamed meat.

He spoke not a word
But went straight to his foray
As he focused attention
On the ranch hand's entree.

He sprinkled magic seasoning
And turned with a jerk
Then laid a finger aside his nose
As he finished his work.

Suddenly he sprang to his sleigh and to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:

"HAPPY CUE'ING TO ALL, AND TO ALL GOOD NIGHT!"