THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS: COMBAT SANTA REVISITED T'was the night before Christmas,

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS: COMBAT SANTA REVISITED
T'was the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give,
And to see just who in this home did live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the mantel, just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands.
He had medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
and a sober thought came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor of this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured a United States soldier.
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
With awe in my heart, I strode 'cross the floor;
I wanted to listen to his stories of war.
I tiptoed past gun racks, nearly slipped on a shell,
Stepped over boxes of ammo and beer cans as well.
I tapped on his shoulder to rouse him from bed:
He whipped out an Uzi and blew off my head.