Here is the CAJUN 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS (another version).
Day 1 Dear Emile, thanks for the bird in the pear tree. I fixed it last night with dirty rice and it was delicious. I don't think the pear tree would grow in the swamp, so I swapped it for a Satsuma tree.
Day 2 Dear Emile, your letter said you sent 2 turtle doves, but all I got was 2 scrawny pigeons. Anyway, I mixed them with andouille and made some gumbo out of them.
Day 3 Dear Emile, why don't you send me some crawfish? I'm tired of eating them darned birds. I gave two of those prissy French chicken to Mrs. Fontenot over at Grand Chenier, and fed the tird one to my dog, Phideaux. Mrs. Fontenot needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.
Day 4 Dear Emile, mon dieu! I told you no more of them birds. These four, what you call "calling birds" was so noisy that you could hear them all the way to Lafayette. I used their necks for my crab traps, and fed the rest of them to the gators.
Day 5 Dear Emile, you finally sent something useful. I liked those golden rings, me. I hocked them at the pawn shop in Sulphur and got enough money to fix the shaft on my shrimp boat, and to buy a round for the boys at the Raisin' Cane Lounge. Merci Beaucoup!
Day 6 Dear Emile, couchon! Back to the birds, you turkey! Poor egg sucking Phideaux is scared to death of those six geese. He try to eat their eggs and they pecked the heck out of his snout. Those geese are damn good at eating cockroachs around the house, though. I may stuff one of those geese with oyster dressing and serve him on Christmas day.
Day 7 Dear Emile, I'm going to wring your fool neck the next time I see you. Ole Boudreaux, the mailman, is ready to kill you too. The crap from all those birds is stinking up his mailboat. He is afraid that someone will slip on that stuff and they are going to sue him. I let those seven swans loose to swim on the bayou and some stupid duck hunter from Mississippi blast them out of the water. Talk to you tomorrow.
Day 8 Dear Emile, poor old Boudreaux had to make 3 trips on his mailboat to deliver those 8 maids-a-milking and their cows. One of the cows got spooked by the alligators and almost tipped over the boat. I don't like those shiftless maids, me. I told them to get to work gutting fish and sweeping my shack - but they said that it wasn't intheir contract. They probably think that they are too good to skin the nutria that I caught last night.
Day 9 Dear Emile, what are you trying to do? Boudreaux had to borrow the Cameron ferry to carry those jumping twits that you call lords-a-leaping across the bayou. As soon as they got here they wanted a tea break and crumpets. I don't know what that means but I said, "Well, j'connais pas! You get Chicory coffee or nothing". Mon Dieux, Emile, what am I going to feed all these couillions? They are too bourgeois for fried nutria, and the cow ate up all of my turnip greens.
Day 10 Dear Emile, you got to be out of your mind. If the mailman doesn't kill you, I will. Today he delivered 10 half nakid floozies from Bourbon street. They said that they are "ladies dancing" but they don't act like ladies in front of them Limey sailing boys. They almost left after one of them got bit by a water moccasin over by my outhouse. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and get lots of rolls of toilet paper. The Sears catalog wasn't good enough for those bourgeois lords. Talk to you tomorrow.
Day 11 Dear Emile, where Y'at? Cherio and pip pip. You 11 Pipers Piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as they got off of the boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jambalaya, finished the whiskey, and we're having a fais-do-do. The new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniels, and he is having a good old time dancing with the floozies. The old mailman jumped off the Moss Bluff bridge yesterday, screaming your name. If you happen to get a mysterious looking ticking package in the mail, don't open it.
Day 12 Dear Emile, me, I'm sorry to tell you - but I am not your true love anymore. After the fais-do-do, I spent the night with Jacque, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentlemen's club on the bayou. The floozies, pardon me, ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be the waiters and valet park the boats. Since the maids have no more cows to milk, I trained them to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We'll probably gross a million dollars next year.
From Cajun Country
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