I know it's January, but here's a Christmas poem...
Twas the night before Christmas and throughout the North Pole,
All the planning was done—everything under control.
I sat at the table, enjoying a warm, hearty stew,
Getting ready to brave the cold on my planned rendezvous.
When out by the barn, there arose such a clatter,
I pushed back from the table, to see what was the matter.
Three elves burst inside and yelled “Santa come quick.”
“Our security’s been breached by a raving lunatic!”
The countdown had started for my long journey ahead,
All but ruined with their words, “Prancer’s missing—presumed dead.”
Standing by the stove, Mrs. Claus frowned at an elf,
As I raced out the door to see for myself.
We passed by the sleigh, all loaded with gifts,
The GPS primed to avoid pesky snowdrifts.
We crunched through the blizzard to the side of the house,
Under the watchful eyes of my jolly, old spouse.
My eyes narrowed and focused on a terrifying scene,
The Christmas holiday ruined if I didn’t intervene.
I drank in the sight—my thoughts quite profane,
There in a huddle lay some butchered remains.
A hoof and some antlers all lying askew,
Amidst bloodspatter and gore—with nary a clue.
A headcount confirmed Prancer was nowhere in sight,
But by the looks of the bloodshed, he’d put up a helluva fight.
If I called 911, there’d be quite a delay,
I considered the situation with heightened dismay.
“Let’s keep it quiet,” the elves all protested,
“‘Cause you know the cops will have us arrested.”
Not fulfilling my duties would ruin my career,
So I adjusted the lineup with seven reindeer.
Guiding the sleigh in a trance, I sorted fact from fiction,
The aha! moment putting me in a bad position.
So I’m writing this letter to Attorney John Smith, Esquire,
Just in case something goes wrong and I should expire.
My lovely missus would be arrested if I shared what I knew,
I’d just figured out the special ingredient in her homemade stew!