[I wanted to write something offensive for Christmas. It's so damn cheerful.]

The Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, except Margret's spouse.
Past the kid's bedrooms he tiptoed with care,
in hopes that his Julia soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
not a clue of the thoughts that were roaming Dad's head.
Suddenly he remembered the burglar alarm,
The one that he never did learn to disarm.
But upstairs, the windows they weren't even latched--
Just open the shutters and throw up the sash!
He grabbed hold the drainpipe and slid to below,
to land on his rump in the new-fallen snow.
Then what should appear while he lay like a log
but a large angry man and eight attack dogs!
With huge upper arms so muscled and thick,
He knew in a moment it must be Big Nick.
Like rabid old vultures the hound-dogs they came,
as he cursed and he shouted and he called them by name:
"Kill, Thrasher! Kill, Slasher! Kill, Lasher and Mincer!
Sic, Rotgut! Sic, Stupid! Sic, Mangler and Blitzer!"
Marget's spouse jumped, stumbled and fell,
then ran away, ran away, running like hell!
As dry leaves before a wild hurricane he flew,
through the back yards, knowing too true
that he must escape each white doggie tooth,
and the anger and fury of Big Nicholas, too.
Soon, the hounds tired, he heard them no more,
Just as he found himself at Julia's front door.
He drew on inside and rushed to her room,
lit by the brightness of a full winter moon.
She was dressed all in skin from her head to her foot,
And she gave him a sultry, "come hither"-type look.
Her clothes lay all crumpled where they fell off her back,
and she motioned for him to come jump in the sack.
Her eyes, how they twinkled! Her dimples how merry!
Her cheeks were like roses, her nipples like cherries.
Her pert little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the skin on her bones was as white as the snow.
"We just can't go on," he told her, distressed.
"It's your husband," he said. "I think he suspects."
Just then, a figure appeared at the door,
casting a shadow that covered the floor.
It was Big Nick himself, her quite evil old man,
and Marget's spouse put his head in his hands.
The glint in Nick's eye and the cock of his head
soon gave him to know he was nothing but dead.
Nick said not a word, but went straight to his work,
and loaded his shotgun; then turned with a jerk.
From out of the shotgun there arose such a blast,
and Julia's sternum went hurtling past.
Big Nick looked amused as he gave out a chuckle,
hooking a thumb in his ivory belt buckle.
And Nick then exclaimed as he spared the man's life:
"Merry Christmas, you bastard, you can have my tramp wife!"

-- © 1992, W.A. Seaver.