A few of his favorite things

Christmas. WHAT’S NOT TO LIKE?

Here, in no particular order, are a few

of our favorite things:

Clydesdale horses and old windowpanes,

A nice glass of grog, those miniature trains,

The bargains, the sales, the 99-cent stores,

The hustle, the bustle, the way your dad snores.

Girls in white dresses, with blue satin sashes,

Snowflakes that fall on your nose and eyelashes.

Turkey skin, cooked till it’s crisp as a chip,

Snowboards and sleds you get from St. Nick.

The twinkle of lights, the scent of a wreath,

Nicholson’s acting, Diane Keaton’s teeth.

The hearth and the home, a big roaring fire,

Mistletoe, stockings -- the Vienna Boys Choir.

Cousins and relatives, their noses all runny,

Old Uncle Fred, who they say is a rummy.

Bach and Vivaldi, Beethoven, Guaraldi,

Ski trips you take to the tip of Mt. Baldy.

The kids running ‘round the holiday table,

Victorian houses, Bing Crosby on cable.

Grandpas in plaid, cheeks glowing like brake lights,

Your best friends, your best booze, together till midnight.

Thick boxes of candy, heavy as coal,

Streisand’s great voice, still pure as the snow.

A big can of peanut brittle, that mouse Stuart Little,

The way your cash flew, like the down of a thistle.

College kids back for break, coming home at late hours,

Their cellphones, they ring till you’re ready to holler.

Toddlers with tinsel and food in their hair,

The Grinch, a guy who could use much more Nair.

Eight maids a-milking and 10 lords a-leapin’,

Get them together, and nobody’s sleepin’.

The turkey, the goose, the Christmas salami,

The ornaments, gift-wrapping, the kids’ origami.

Christmas letters that tell you how happy they are,

The in-laws you love and adore from afar.

Boat parades, Ice Capades, kids remembering to pray,

The way police go to work Christmas Day.

Holiday parties, where everyone hugs,

The cold and the flu -- the Kleenex, the drugs.

The young children nestled all snug in their beds,

We break out the bourbon, white wine and the red.

Coltrane’s “Greensleeves,” he played on the sax,

The way votive candles drip all their wax.

Eggnog and good drink, the buttery rum,

Store clerk and shoppers, all under the gun.

Sunsets of silver, magenta and gold,

Mrs. Claus, how she seems to never get old.

The toys and the gadgets, brought home by the bucket,

The assembly directions, so bad, you just chuck it.

Cheeks red as roses, a nose like a cherry,

The wise men who visited our last virgin, Mary.

The way Chevy Chase hung those lights on the roof,

The way that new angel showed George Bailey’s no goof.

Christmas drives, Burl Ives, the great late Nat King Cole,

The pop divas you wish would just crawl in a hole.

The corny, the horny, the funny, the blue,

The way all the Whos never cried out “Boo-Hoo.”

Dickens and Shepherd, T. Geisel and Schulz,

That Charlie Brown tree, brittle as toast.

The parties, where food comes out by the platter,

You’re fasting next week, so what does it matter?

The cookies, the cupcakes, I think I had several,

Remind me to check my cholesterol level.

On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen,

Your mother, by now, that’s a drink she’s a-mixin’.

On Comet, on Cupid, on Blitzen and Donner,

Tomorrow, there’s bills, together you’ll ponder.

The way Santa exclaimed, as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, don’t call me, all right?

“I’m tired, I’m broke, I look like I’m needy,

Next Christmas I’m taking Mrs. Claus to Tahiti.”

*

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.