Da Night Before Christmas in Poland
Written by Raymond Odrowaz-Sypniewski, B.S., M.A. Copyright 1967.
***This poem was originally written for the Christmas 1967 Faculty Party at West Middle School, in Plymouth-Canton School District. It was one of the most requested poems at Christmas and has been sent around the world many times in the forty-nine years since. This poem has been on the Internet since 1998.

It vas the night before Christmas in my Polish house.
I creep down the stairs quiet as a mouse.
Da rest of my family, dey are asleep,
Vile visions of mushrooms tru der heads creep.
Da work shoes are hung by da chimney vit care.
In hopes that St. Stashu will soon fill dem der
Vile over in da corner is silly to see,
Kielbasa and cabbages hanging from da tree.
Den der's dis bing bang and da house starts to shudder
Some nut lands on da roof and breaks da rain gutter.
He starts down da chimney, swears cause it's tight
I hide behind beer cases, way out of sight.
He lands in da fireplace, scorching his hair
On da busted up orange crate still burning der.
He climbs out - I peek - and get a big look -
He's just like da picture in my Polish book.
He got vodka glazed eyes and stomach like bubble.
A five day beard, der's soot on the stubble
And he's lost all da buttons off old mackinaw
And he wears da biggest tennis shoes I ever saw.
Dis Polish Santa; I know vitout fear
'Cause he heads for da kitchen and opens a beer
When he finishes six pack, he gives a big smirk,
Reaches in da potato sack and goes to work.
Now under da tree he starts to set
Da most beautiful presents a Pollack can get.
Der's a new mushroom basket and a shovel for Brudder,
A bright red bubushka and a pick axe for Mudder.
I must see him leave, so I rushes outside
And looks up to da roof vile in bushes I hide.
And vat do I see as I look thru da twigs,
But his old wooden garbage cart pulled by eight pigs.
Polish Santa jumps in and gives dem all hell
"Come on youse pigs, don't just stand der and smell.
On Stella, on Walter, on Stanley, and Joe,
And all youse others, whose names I don't know."
"Fly over da junk yard and turn to da right,
Let's visit all peoples before I get tight."
Den I hear him say as he flew over me,
"I'm da only Pollack dat gives tings for free."

(This poem is intentionally written, in dialect, as spoken by my grandparents from Poland. They spoke mostly Polish in their home).
If you pass this on please remember to tell them who wrote it originally with explanation - thank you.

Webmaster: Margaret nee Knight [Odrowaz] Sypniewski, B.F.A.
Last updated on December 24, 2016

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