Papa don’t preach . . .
. . . in his sleep!
‘Twas Saturday when Dad sat down.
He’d been quite busy all ‘round town.
Helping folks — the sick the poor,
Ringing bells and knocking on doors.
Minister work is never done,
Unabated, sun to sun.
Brief pauses sometimes might appear,
And that’s when dad goes shooting deer.
Other dads, they guzzle booze,
but my dad, he’ll just take a snooze,
While dreams of Bambi fill his head,
Upon his Barcalounger red.
Santa Claus who folks hold dear,
Well THAT guy sleep the whole darn year,
Both Dad and Claus deserve a rest,
These helping folk, they do their best.
So let us merry each one be,
and decorate our Christmas trees,
And leave a cookie out for Claus,
And napping preachers, Gramps, and Paws.