It’s Morbid Cuban Christmas

I was going to put up a poll today to begin the weekend, but since we’ve had some poetry postings this week, I figured there was no better time than the present to have some poetic fun.

Ive taken the liberty of butchering the beginning that classic Christmas poem “Twas the night before Christmas” and turned it into something a little different. I need you all to help finish it off. The only rules are that the meter and rhyme patterns must be kept. The original poem, by Clement Clarke Moore, is here for your use.

To wit:

Twas la Noche Ante Christmas Y No Habia Lechon

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through each house,
Every Cuban was praying for fidel’s light to douse;

His grave was dug deep as each Cuban did dare,
Dream that fidel’s corpse would soon rot in there;

The children were back from their time in the fields,
All dreaming of freedom and all that it yields;
Both Mama in chancletas and I with no shoes,
Had just written Miami asking for news;
When from la calle central there came such a clatter,
That I forgot my Spanish and screamed “wassamatter?”
Away to the window sali embalao,
Thinking it might be Raul otra vez muy jalao.

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