“Twas the night before Christmas” written by Nicholas Krewstyscabbe*
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
For they had been smooshed and flattened and relieved of their feet
By a ghastly young girl that claimed “ADD!”
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Coated in retardant that befouled the air
But the FDA approved it, they pushed it right through!
For someone had photos of a congressman…or two.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
So they were pumped full of Xanax, Thorazine too
til the visions had dimmed and the fruit was just fruit.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I arose with my handgun to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Seeking a clear field of fire to turn intruders to ash!
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave my keen eye good aim on what was below.
then what in the square of my sights should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight mangy reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
He’d gotten out early, released on parole
he’d fooled them again bless his wicked old soul!
“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!, on Donner and Blitzen!
The night is still young and the johns are about
Daddy needs cash, twas time you turned out.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
a scraping and pounding of tools on the…um….well, roof I guess.
Then into the house came St Nick with a bound
where he leered at the flat-screen licking his chops like a hound
He seemed to feel he was something, quite dashing indeed
With his very tight Speedo, neck chain and erring.
With the bundle of burglary tools slung over his back
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
I n’er or’looked the ankle monitor he was wearing
With specking of white coating all over his chin
Showed he had be huffing just before he broke in.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
But he had smoked his last rock, its why he was here
and why he was reduced to pimping tiny reindeer.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I wailed when I saw him, I near wet myself!
With his red runny eyes and a twist of his head,
At knew in a moment I had a world of dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
bound us all up in ropes with a twist and a jerk.
But that was not the worst, I n’er lost my lunch
for when he turned towards the chimney we saw how his Speedo had bunched!
He sprang to his sleigh, with our goods all in tow
for the alert on his ankle monitor was starting to glow.
As he was leaving he shouted over his back
“Say nothing to no one cause I swear I’ll be back!”
* Nicholas Krewstyscabbe is sadly, not a pen name. Born in 1924 in Somerville, MA, Mr. Krewstyscabbe made many failed attempts to publish and sell poetry over the years until recently discovering the magic of plagiarism. Preferring to refer to it a “Urinating from the shoulders of giants,” this questionable tribute to Clement Clarke Moore or Henry Livingston is found in his most recent collected works “The New English Translation of Classic American Literature” published by the Somerville Cockfighting Society. Sadly, English is Mr. Krewstyscabbe’s 4th language. (His 3rd language is said to be a collection of belches and scratching himself, with his 2nd language and native tongue mercifully lost to time.). The publication of this work in no way reflects the opinion of this publisher, but does imply he’s got some pretty good dirt on us.