A Christmas Poem; or, Justification for Murder

’Twas the night before Christmas, and in the North Pole,

Just one creature was stirring, with eyes dark as coal.

She was dressed all in crimson, the renowned Mrs. Claus,

Too aware that St. Nick was away in the stars.

The white candles were dimmed and the music was low

While she listened for footsteps and knocks in the snow.

Then the sound came at last: a faint tap in the night;

She responded by shrieking erotic delight.

Away to the window she ran like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

Then what to her wondering eyes did appear

But an elf all in green with a lustful moist leer.

“Mrs. Claus,” he began, eyes upon her white breast,

“You’re a sight for sore eyes—now please show me the rest.”

At one end of the world, the adulteress agreed;

At the other, her husband gave gifts and helped need:

For this lively and quick saint seemed kindly and true—

But to think him a fool?  Oh, if only she knew.

For he guessed and he at grieved his wife’s greatest sin

And he hoped she’d refuse to allow that elf in.

But the proof, when it came, no one could deny,

And it meant just one thing: that the vixen must die.

Back to the Pole flew St. Nick in a bound

To catch both of them while the elf was around.

With some duct tape in hand, and armed to the teeth,

Nick was dressed all in plastic, his head to his feet.

A short minute of work, and he had them both tied—

Not long after they begged him—“Please, mercy!” they cried.

They had done it, they owned, but it was Christmas morn—

Shouldn’t Santa forgive, on the day Christ was born?

St. Nicholas would: this, the saint would allow;

But Old Nick? He was entirely different now.

With a grin full of needles and hands full of knives,

Bloody Nick cut their loins and he bled out their lives.

When the deed was complete, Santa cleaned up the place

Once again with a gentle and innocent face.

He disposed of the plastic a country away

And was back to the Pole by the break of the day.

As he entered, the elves told him, to his great grief,

That his wife had been murdered by a mysterious thief.

Yes, from that day to this, that’s the story that’s told,

And if anyone knows different, they are never so bold

As to call out Old Nick—for if any did try,

Then for certain would they be the next ones to die.

 

 (A little backstory.  At my work, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, an elf doll is brought out.  Every evening, whoever closes gets to position the elf as they choose.  Naturally, the elf dies a variety of humorously awful deaths in addition to its other hijinks.  The other day, such death was clearly linked to Santa.  But why? people wondered.  Santa is lovely!  Surely everything will be nice the next day!  And so I wrote why.  I was given no other prompt, but told I ought to use the words "moist" and "loins."  So here we are.

And in case anyone is wondering: I love Christmas and am actually fairly full of Christmas spirit this year.  Which is honestly probably how this poem happened.  Please see the original for actual Christmas fun, and note that a couple of lines come directly from it.)