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For years my grandfather, Irwin Alton Simpson, recited this poem every Christmas Eve, usually after a few shots of whisky. I’m not sure of its origin or when and where he first heard it, but he was an advertising man in Manhattan and, later, the Ad Director for the St. Petersburg (FL) Times, so he knew a ton of bawdy jokes and dirty limericks. (This poem is pretty tame compared to some he knew.)
After he died, the torch was passed to my father, Richard Irwin Simpson, who did an equally fine job, as he was also an ad man. He still recites the poem, even if it’s sometimes over the phone. James Irwin Simpson, that’s me, will be the next torch bearer.
With much love on this Christmas Eve, I share with you all this poem.
‘Twas Christmas Eve in the prison and the warden was walking the halls
Shouting ‘Merry Christmas, prisoners!’ and the prisoners replied, ‘Balls!’
This made the warden quite angry and he swore by all the gods,
‘You shall have no Christmas pudding, you dirty lowdown dogs!’
Then up spoke one old prisoner with face as hard as brass,
‘Warden, you can take your Christmas pudding and shove it up your ass!’
