The Baby, The Manger--All that Jazz

Time ago, a star popped in the West
and crazed up the eastern joint—bringing sages
caravanning the myrrh
and frankincense and let’s not forget their best,
that gold more shiny than a mere carpenter’s wages.
It was all a stir

in Bethlehem, then Egypt, then the Nazareth digs.
The phalanx of togas pondered long, far off in Rome,
left the grumbling Jews
to debate the grave, the what-next, the no-no of pigs.
Then Herod wanted unalive all them baby boys back home,
not even leave a few.

And we conjure a booked-up inn and a seedy
barn with a hay-stuffed manger, the silly sheeps and mules—
none of the sad.
Just the momentum of love and hope for all us needy
souls on the brink, the break, the bust. Truly sad them fools
who scoff the baby and his Papa’s pad.