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!
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