As Santa bites the cookie lure
Set out by those not quite mature,
On that same Eve, the goblins pounce
To squeeze out evil, every ounce.
They stink the air with putrid farts
And profane all the kitchen’s arts.
The season’s spirit is its smell,
So that’s why goblins mock its spell.
The act of murder, laying flat,
Is like a feast for creeping rats.
Tonight is goblin Mardi Gras
Where drinks are brought by Santa Claus.
But yet the saint falls with no fear
Into the chimney one last year.
That redded man in leather coat
Rolls like a bolus down the throat
Into the paunch of each kid’s house
’Till finally felled by goblin chouse.
They sat and stalked for hours and hours—
Their goal to steal the fat man’s powers.
They waited by the fireplace frames
To shackle Nick, to set in flames.
His soul now sent to Sheol quick;
His flesh to brick does meld and stick.
Eleven days that soul remains
Constrained in Rahab’s cold domain,
Her swollen belly. Here’s the home
Perpetually of imps and gloam,
Which shimmer while a curse they chant
As Santa’s magic they decant
Into a flasket formed of clay.
Consumed, the Myran drops to pray.
“Oh Christ, you captor of my soul,
Remove at once this noxious bowl,
Replacing it with lively stew!
When eating I commune with you.
If you avenge me on this heath,
The blood of goats will stain my teeth
For, when I own my flesh and power,
These taloned goblins I’ll devour!”
No banquet could his dread assuage,
Our tortured hero long engaged,
Except for one so gay in blood
It drowned all goblins in a flood.
To make his situation clear
Our hero wants, not milk, but beer.
So is his form twirled up in knots.
But look! A glint—a chariot!
Three magi come to fix the curse
Who bring a sleigh that’s more a hearse.
They lay the spirit in his bed,
Then scout the kingdom of the dead.
They gift a meal cooked to revive,
A loaf of stollen. As they drive
The odor lingers in his nose
Crocheting meaty skin to bones.
His mortal body on the twelfth
Awakes to find itself an elf.
He judges, resting on the sleigh,
“Why don’t we fight another day?
I’m feeling ready for some chores.
Let’s purchase freedom for some whores.”
“We love your mirth,” the kings reply,
Downpouring presents from the sky.
The holy saints now speed through air
Propelled by reindeer used as mares.
Such laughter rings from out the clouds
As makes a mudbound cricket wowed
When it, released a second life,
Returns to play its sorry fife.
The just are built by royal smell,
But goblins joke themselves to hell.
