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The Night Before Christmas In An Old Folks Home

Image used under a Collective Commons License from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Christmas_Day_in_a_nursing_home_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1091150.jpg

Here’s a nice Christmas poem about the night before Christmas in an old folks home.

This was written in jest a while ago, indeed it was emailed to me ten years ago by a friend and yes, I do have emails going back that far, but let’s not go into that now and just get on with some Christmas humour, which is the purpose of this article after all.

So read and enjoy, this just might be you and I in a few years. If so, this is what we might have to look forward to on the night before Christmas.

Twas the night before Christmas at Castlemaine Rest,
And all of us seniors were looking our best.
Our glasses, how sparkly, our wrinkles, how merry;
Our punch bowl held prune juice plus three drops of sherry.

A bedsock was taped to each walker, in hope
That Santa would bring us soft candy and soap.
We surely were lucky to be there with friends,
Secure in this residence and in our Depends.

Our grandkids had sent us some Christmassy crafts,
Like angels in snowsuits and penguins on rafts.
The dental assistant had borrowed our teeth,
And from them she’d crafted a holiday wreath.

The bed pans, so shiny, all stood in a row,
Reflecting our candle’s magnificent glow.
Our supper so festive — the joy wouldn’t stop —
Was creamy warm oatmeal with sprinkles on top.

Our salad was Jell-O, so jiggly and great,
Then puree of fruitcake was spooned on each plate.
The social director then had us play games,
Like “Where Are You Living?” And “What Are Your Names?”

Old Grandfather Looper was feeling his oats,
Proclaiming that reindeer were nothing but goats.
Our resident wand’rer was tied to her chair,
In hopes that at bedtime she still would be there.

Security lights on the new fallen snow
Made outdoors seem noon to the old folks below.
Then out on the porch there arose quite a clatter
(But we are so deaf that it just didn’t matter).

A strange little fellow flew in through the door,
Then tripped on the sill and fell flat on the floor.
‘Twas just our director, all togged out in red.
He jiggled and chuckled and patted each head.

We knew from the way that he strutted and jived,
Our social-security checks had arrived.
We sang — how we sang — in our monotone croak,
Till the clock tinkled out its soft eight-p.m. stroke.

And soon we were snuggling deep in our beds.
While nurses distributed nocturnal meds.
And so ends our Christmas at Castlemaine Rest.
Before long you’ll be with us, We wish you the best.


Image used under a Collective Commons License from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Christmas_Day_in_a_nursing_home_-geograph.org.uk-_1091150.jpg

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