I'm not much for religion, to church I rarely go,
on Sunday's it's football I watch, and then the lawn I mow.
I like to wager money, on cards and games of chance,
if grace is said at supper time, it makes no differance.
As Christmas time approaches, the liquor I draw near it,
a 30 year old Bowmore, is what I call the wholly spirit.
But regardless of my lack of faith, on December 24th,
I head out to the chapel, with the family of course.
I sit through what I make to be, a never ending sermon,
While dreaming of a highland malt, or straight Kentucky bourbon.
On Christmas day I head downstairs, with the children and my lady,
a mug held tightly in my hand, full of coffee with some baileys.
The girls are all excited, their faces lit with grins,
but still this day I think is based on false shenanigans.
My wife hands me a gift wrapped tin, it's tall and round and thin,
I start to get excited at what may be found within.
For the first time since my childhood, I fold my hands in prayer,
And ask the lord that single malt be what's wrapped up in there.
The excitement's now to much to take, it's time to have a looksy,
"Praise the Lord!" I shout out loud, baby Jesus gave me whisky!
(For the record, I love Christmas, and don't believe it's all "shenanigans", that word just seemed to work for this particular poem)
Merry Christmas everyone!