The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.
The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.
The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.
The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.
The Tenth Day
On this, the Tenth Day of our Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry Christmas.