‘Twas the night before Christmas

and from our abode,

I could see the lights glowing,

On Pebbleditch Road.

The stockings were hung,

By the chimney with thought,

And up on the mantle,

A small glass of port…

And a mince pie for Santa,

And carrots and fruits,

For his bold, faithful reindeer,

Such elegant brutes.

While down in the kitchen,

The dog in his bed,

Gave a deep sigh,

And lowered his head.

And I in my Jimjams,

And him in the buff,

Passed out for the night,

After more than enough.

When outside the window,

Arose a loud THUD,

As something, who knew what?

Made contact with mud.

My heavy eyes opened,

My heart gave a patter,

I crawled to the curtain,

To see what was the matter.

Looking down from the first floor,

The lawn looked absurd,

With yellowing patches and,

And lumps of dog turd.

And right in its middle,

A road kill, a tangle,

Of reindeer and Santa,

All at the wrong angle.

One reindeer, his nose red,

Was struggling to rise,

And gifts of all sizes,

Rained down from the skies.

And Santa was wiping,

His boot with a list

As he glared at the window,

And shook a small fist.

Eventually, upright,

The gallant old team,

Made it up to the roof, where,

They could not be seen.

But I heard them all land,

then I heard Santa shout,

From the fireplace,

Something about port causing gout.

Then back up the chimney and,

Into the mist,

The sleigh lurched and twisted,

I think he was …!


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