Christmas Punks

While driving to Corvallis on a cool December day,
I saw two punks a hiking up the road from Depoe Bay.
They both wore sleeveless jackets over T-shirts none-to-clean.
One's hair was reddish colored and the other's hair was green.

I pulled up right beside them as they marched along the street.
I noticed they were wearing unlaced sneakers on their feet.
I'm not a man who offers rides to young and healthy boys,
But it was Christmas season and I brimmed with yulish joys.

I rolled down my car window and I said to them, "Where to?"
I noticed then, on each punk's arm a small reindeer tatoo.
And both wore little knitted caps, each topped with mistletoe.
I said, "You need a lift somewhere? Where do you want to go?"

"The forest, Geeze, is where we go," said the green-haired punk to me.
He'd earings shaped like holly and wore pants with holey knee.
"You're hunting, huh?" I said to them, but they just laughed with glee.
"No Gomer," said the red-haired punk, "we want a Christmas tree."

I guess I was a bit surprised, but offered them a ride.
They slapped high-fives with sequined gloves and rushed to get inside.
Green sat in front and decked a tape, and maxed the volume knob.
The Windows flexed, my hair stood up, my teeth began to throb.

We heard from Devo's Christmas Hits, the album that Green played.
I'm sure the "merry gentlemen" were mightily dismayed.
The red-haired punk, he lounged in back, his sneaks upon the seat,
And pounded on the ceiling to the rhythm of the beat.

Messiah, by the Beastie Boys, the next tune that we heard.
If Handel ever heard it then he must be reinterred.
I cried, "Enough, I draw the line at Silent Night by Sting,
And Talking Heads interpret Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

But Ozzie Osborn's just too much, he's gone beyond the pale.
He sings White Christmas, new wave, then bites off a Reindeer's tail."
"How can you listen to this trash," I said, "Its too bizzare."
"Its Christmas," said the red-haired punk, and strummed an air guitar.

I stopped the car just off the street, beside the City's park.
Where Douglas Fir and Sitka Spruce made shadows cool and dark.
"We must be here," the punks gazed out at tree boughs growing near.
They snapped their gum and pulled out blades from pockets in their gear.

At first I felt a thrill of fear, but then I understood.
The knives were never meant for me, they meant them to cut wood.
The punks got out and walked amidst the waving evergreen.
And started hacking on a trunk while humming Bruce Springsteen.

"Now just a minute here," I cried, "You can't cut that tree down.
Its growing in a public park, for everyone in town."
The tree was just a few feet high, "Its much too small," I cried.
Before the words had left my mouth, the tree lay on its side.

They rolled the tree in plastic wrap, just like a big cigar.
Then briskly walked back to the street and stuffed it in my car.
"Oh no you don't," I said, aghast, "Thats stolen property."
Ignoring me they got back in and grinned expectantly.

I looked around to see if there were neighbors watching us.
But it was dark and no one seemed to notice all the fuss.
My mind was racing madly as I started up my car.
I figured I could ditch them at the nearest sleazy bar.

I'd drop them off, then phone the cops, explain the incident.
I'd tell them it was not my fault, that I was innocent.
Before I had a chance to carry out my feeble plan.
The red-haired punk, he grabbed the wheel and shouted, "Our stop man!"

I jammed on brakes and stopped before a large and rambling shack.
The punks got out and took the tree and walked around in back.
I sat a while and then I noticed something on the lawn.
A statue of a girl and boy, feeding squirrel and fawn.

A beat up sign hung on the door all framed in rusted chrome.
I barely could determine it said, "Seaside Orphan's Home."
I left my car and looked inside, through dirty window panes.
The weather chose that moment to begin its promised rains.

The punks were there surrounded by a bunch of laughing kids.
Some clapped their hands and danced about, but some were invalids.
The punks set up the tree beside an empty fireplace,
And all the kids that could put hand-made ornaments in place.

Returning to my car, I sat alone and watched the house.
I couldn't keep from feeling that I'd acted like a louse.
I drove down to a mall nearby and bought some Christmas stuff.
I maxed out both my credit cards before I had enough.

I went back to the orphanage and knocked upon the door.
And left a bag of presents and a yulelog on the floor.
And later on I told my kids, all snuggly in their bunks,
The story of the time I met with Santa's Christmas Punks.