With Apologies to Clement Moore...

‘Twas the middle of Raccoon Week,
When all through the room,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a coon.

The licorice was hung
By the chimney but…who cares?
No one wants to eat it,
Not even the bears.

The children were nestled,
All snug in their beds.
While visions of baked haddock,
Danced in their heads.

And mama in her jaunty hat
And I in my Capri pants,
Wondered why Jerry Lewis
Was so big in France.

When out on the lawn,
There arose such a big bang,
I knew I forgot to put the lid
On the garbage can—dang!

Away to the window
I flew like a flash,
Tore up the shutter
And yelled, ‘stop that, you [censored]!’

The dinosaurs in peril
Looked at the new-fallen snow,
And wondered if the robots
Would ever let them go.

When what to my wondering eyes
should appear, but a miniature sleigh
for the dinosaurs—look here!

With a little old driver, a bit past his day,
I knew in a moment, it was the ghost—
Of…Robert Goulet!

More rapid than eagles, the raccoons exclaimed:
Hey Bertie! Hey Clyde!
Hey Victor and Lester!
Hey Robespierre! Hey Nat!
Hey Algernon and Lex!
Get into that sleigh and you’ll
No longer be vexed!

To the top of the garbage cans,
To the top of the shed,
Goulet drives pretty well,
For a guy that’s quite dead.

Now that the dinos were safe,
The coons felt a bit hungry,
so they rummaged through
the bins, all messy and sundry.

And then in a twinkle,
I heard on the roof,
The dinos were back—
What d’ya mean, you want proof?

As I drew in my head,
And was turning around,
The late Robert Goulet
Offered to buy me a round.

He was dressed in a suit,
And of wine I’m quite fond.
Who cares if the buyer
Is from the great beyond?

We toasted the dinos,
As they played poker with the raccoons,
Who were smoking some bacon
And laughing like loons.

Their eyes, how they glowed!
Their mascara, so black!
Their fur, so soft!
It would make a good hat!

They chewed on some corn cobs,
And nibbled on old spaghetti,
Then wiped their mouths clean,
With brochures of the Serengeti.

They had broad faces
And little round bellies,
I bet they’d like buttered toast
With just a spot of jelly.

They were chubby and plump,
That happens when you eat trash.
I laughed when I saw them,
And they tried to bite me in the [censored].

Goulet winked his eye,
I suppressed a small scream
Would he dare to sing, I wondered,
“The Impossible Dream?”

He spoke not a word,
But whistled to the raccoons.
Who were happy to follow his orders,
Like a supervillain’s goons.

And laying a paw aside of their noses,
They quickly set to stealing
The neighbor’s garden hoses.

I thought this quite odd,
But then Goulet whistled.
The dinos saluted,
And the robots plotted and bristled.

But I heard him exclaim
As he drove out of sight
“Happy Raccoon Week to all,
And to all a good night!”