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Greetings for a Cool Yule ("The Beatnik Mother Goose") Like, man . . .
27 November 1959
It was the night before Yuletide, And all through the pad Not a beatmo had eyes Not even old Dad. The mice were all tucked In their war surplus sack And the Snowman was a’banging The bongos, out back, While me and my chick Were hung out and loose With our eyeballs in orbit, Like a bugged Mother Goose. When what should I screen On my old radar set But the high screaming whine Of a low flying jet. And out of the Night, Which was frigid and black, Came a red flannel Cat With a pack on his back And a horn in his hand, Blowing wild on the breeze, He was riding the needle Like, “Cut out and freeze!” He came on like a bomb, Dropping straight from the rack, And left skid marks all over The top of my shack. So I pull an Espresso And invite the man in And he says, “Like crazy, Dad, Slip me some skin!” Then I light up the pad And we ball it up big And he sits there, like cool, man, Flipping his wig. While the mice were all stoned In their little round beds With visions of cool jazz In their hip little heads. And we make with the Zen, Like the sound of one hand, And the voice of the cuckoo Is heard in the land! ‘Till the wee hours have fled Then he holds up the sack And shakes down the goodies For the mice in the pack. A sax for the oldest. A sip-blade for me (like Mack-the-Knife!) A jolt for the Snowman And bags of pure tea! Then into the sandbox, And he’s out like a light, And he gives it the count-down And blasts out of sight. But before he can go, man, I lift that white thatch And dig those glazed eyeballs In their little round hatch. And there in the Night Like a square on the kick, Why, it’s smiling old Laughing Boy “Jolly” Beat Nick!
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