El Noche Before Navidad
(with sincerest apologies to Clement Clarke Moore and Robert Rodriguez)

'Twas el noche before Navidad, when all through the casa

Not a creature was stirring, no, de nada pasa;

An old sock was hung by the chimnea with care,

In hopes that fat gringo soon would be there;

The kid in the yellow tee shirt was nestled snug in his bed,

While visions of touristas buying chicle danced in his head;

And el hombre sans ojos, who'd kept him around,

Was sipping tequila with a lime that he'd found,

When out in the living room there arose such a clatter,

He grabbed his Glock and ran out there, as mad as a hatter.

Away down the hall he sped, loading ammo,

The house, robed in darkness, like midnight's black camo.

The moon over the house in old Mexico

Gave no light at all to the blind man below.

When, what to his listening ears did he hear,

Something that jingled, and footsteps quite near.

Sands heard that sound, and realized - yeah, bingo!

It was that damned mariachi, not the fat gringo.

More rapid than eagles his pistols they blazed,

And he snarled, and swore, and ranted and raved;

"El, you grammatical guitar-playing martyr!

I thought you were shacked up in Puerto Vallerta!

I've killed dozens of people, from cartels to cooks!

And I'm wasting you next, you stupid fuckmook!"

As hot lead from the Glock's barrel did fly,

From down the corridor came the kid's cry,

And out to the living room bloodbath he flew,

To find Sands with his pistol and St. Nick in grue.

He stopped in the doorway, for to his surprise

That wasn't the sight that met his young eyes.

Sands stood there confronting a man dressed in red,

Who though, looking shaken, was clearly not dead.

He was spattered with blood, from his head to his boots,

And had gunpowder burns on his crimson wool suit;

A mangled Palm Pilot was clasped in his hands,

And he gave a stern look at the still-vigilant Sands.

His eyes didn't twinkle, his brows slanted down,

His lips were compressed in a forbidding frown.

He said sternly, "Sheldon, you've been a bad boy!

That thing you're waving around is no toy;

If I were your average guy, I'd be dead,

And a worldful of children would be after your head."

He leaned a bit closer and said in Sands's ear,

"I'll let it slide this time, since you've had a bad year.

To show no hard feelings, here's what I'll do-

Give me that gun - I'll give something to you."

Sands smirked and gave a toss of his head,

"Yeah? What do you have that I'd want?" he said.

Santa smiled and answered, "The thing you want most.

But first, your vengence must give up the ghost."

The gunfighter said, "What, you're giving me pork?

How dumb do you think I am, you big dork?"

"Just give me the gun, Sheldon, and don't try to fight,

And in return for that, I'll give you back light."

Then Santa, oh-so-swiftly and sly as a fox

Swapped the hand-cannon for a small cardboard box.

"Hey, you!" snapped Sands, "I didn't say yes!

Give that back, it's the only friend I possess!"

"Gifts are returnable, but before you decide,

Please open the box and try what's inside."

The kid stepped forward as Sands lifted the lid,

And fingered twin spheres the cardboard had hid.

He watched as the senor raised one orb to his face-

Smoothly, it entered the socket's embrace.

Sands, squinting, inserted the second brown eye,

Blinked, walked to the window, and looked at the sky.

"It's a deal," Sands told the red-suited man.

"My guns for the sight of the world once again."

Santa grinned, "I thought you'd see it my way."

"As long as I see it - but yeah, you're okay."

Then Santa in a shower of tinsel was gone,

Though the scent of cordite and blood lingered on.

There were presents galore, but the kid's big grin

Was aimed at the senor who returned it to him.

Sands said, "Next year, pal, I won't cut a deal.

I'll just leave out some tequila and puerco pibil."

And

I say to you all, to you, you and you-

"Happy holidays to all! Don't forget to review!"

Some things are not meant to be combined.

Tequila and egg nog are two of them...