T'was The Night Before Kwanzaa

An irreverent wine country spin on Clement Clarke Moore's Christmas classic

T'was The Night Before Kwanzaa

by Robert Mondavi Frost

T’was the night before Kwanza and all through the winery,
The guests had departed in all of their finery.

The stemware was hung on the bar racks with care,
In hopes that on Monday no tourists would be there.

The cab which was nestled all snug in its barrels,
Was deep in the caves, far from climate perils.

Winemaker in work boots, and I in my mask,
Had done final rounds, turning barrels our task.

When out in the vineyards there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to the crushpad to see what was the matter.

I jumped on the golf cart and flew like a flash,
Through the petite verdot block, past the bin with the trash.

The moon as it shown on the dark leafless vines,
Illuminated coyotes near fire damaged pines.

When what to my CO2 riddled brain should appear,
But a car full of migrants, their trunk full of beer.

Salvador was his name, he was lively and quick,
“Would you like to join us, we’ve tamales and shit.”

More rapid than 5G, I turned off the cart,
Sal whistled, and signaled, they brought me a start.

"Now, Jorge! now, Diego! now, Jesus and Juan!
Darse prisa! Mis amigas! give Robert the bong!

They wiped down the mouthpiece then filled up the pipe
I took a long drag, it was worth all the hype.

The buzz that I got was much better than wine
If I n’er drank more grape juice, I felt I’d be fine.

“You’re bogarting Mr. Robert! Now that's not polite! 
Pass the bong and the wipes, now go try some tripe.”

So I filled up my plate with tamales and tacos,
Grabbed a Corona and lime and tried to act macho.

As I chugged the cold beer and inhaled a jalapeno,
I thought of my wife, spending money in Reno.

She was dressed to the nines in her media post,
And she and her friends had done shots ‘til they’re toast.

To the side was a good looking waiter named Jack,
He was scantily dressed, in a g-string was packed.

His eyes how they twinkled, his bleached smile so merry!
His butt cheeks ripe melons, his “nose” a bing cherry!

In the video that followed, my wife was the star.
From the look on her face, it was clear they’d gone far.

My wife’s panties I saw he held tight in his teeth,
With steam from the hot tub round his head like a wreath.

He had a tan face, a “six pack” for a belly,
That held firm when he laughed, as he clasped KY jelly.

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
I watched as he threw my wife on the round bed.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He pulled off her stockings; then turned with a jerk.

Then laying his finger on the video pause,
My torture was ended, no more Sex Santa Claus.

Then giving a thanks to my brand new best friends,
I threw down some cash, then off for amends.

I cancelled credit cards, from the bank pulled my money.
The end to my wife’s trip to Reno weren't funny.

I rented a camper in which I could crash,
I picked up the dog, in the kitchen dumped trash.

And away from the valley I drove out-of-sight,
Away from my troubles and marital plight.

To Tahoe, Grand Canyon, Malibu and Big Sur,
I planned to go hiking and fuck you to her.

And as I was driving, Tom Petty spoke to me,
“You’ve got to stop all the self-pity!”

“Well, some say life will beat you down, 
Break your heart, steal your crown.

"So I've started out, for god knows where.
I guess I'll know when I get there."