"The Night Before Bopmas"
by George Wettling
Vol. 1, No. 7, January 1957
WAS the dim before Bopmas when all through the trap,
Not a goatee was moving--and who gave a rap?
The berets were hung by the jukebox with care
In big hopes that Daddy-O soon would be there.
The boppers were stashed real cool in their pads,
'Cause Frustration and Frenzy didn't bother those lads.
My queen in her scanties and I in my robe,
Had just fixed our wigs for a long winter's load,
When out in the backyard I heard such a rumpus,
I thought all the saints had marched down to stomp us.
Away for my horn-rims I flew like a jet
And latched on real crazy, like Macbeth at the Met.
When I dug that sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
I thought I had flipped drinking whisky and beer.
With a little old hipster so jivey and mellow,
I knew in a minute it wasn't Longfellow.
His eight tiny coursers were really insane,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
"Blow Jackson, blow Yardbird,
Blow Basie and Hackett,
Go Louie, Go Dizzy,
Go Big T and Jacquet.
Just blow up a storm--get all over the scale,
Now, blow away, blow away, really sway, wail.
As long hairs that sight-read a Bartok will fly
When they meet Stravinsky, rise to the sky.
So up to the fill-mill the Hipsters they flew,
And really got righteous--and Daddy-O, too.
And then they were jiving so mellow and fine,
And snapping their caps on King Kong and wine.
As I drew in my fuse box and was turning around,
Down the old flue came Dads with a bound.
He was big, round and fat,
A right frantic old cat,
With scarlet suede shoes and a red pork-pie hat.
The butt of a stogie he held in his choppers,
The smoke would have knocked over seventeen boppers.
His eyes, how they lit up--his dimples so crazy.
His cheeks like Four Roses,
His nose was a daisy
That shook when he laughed like a ruptured libido
And all through his work, he whistled Perdido.
With a wink of his glim, he went straight for his jug,
And I knew right away he was cutting a rug.
He spoke not a word, he didn't say nuttin',
And I thought for sure that he'd lost his button.
But laying his index aside of his smeller,
And giving a nod, he went down to the cellar.
He dug up his horn, to his boys gave a cue,
And away they all blew up the flue to see you.
But I heard him exclaim as he hit early bright,
Boppy Xmas to all, and to all a good night.