'Twas Not

'Twas the night before Poop State Registration, when all thro' the room
Not a light-bulb was glowing, not even the moon;
The mirrors were hung by the bureau with fear,
In hopes that self-pity would ne'er appear;
The puppy was nestled all snug in my bed,
While visions of murdered rabbits decompos'd in his head,
And Ego in her temple, and Id in my hovel,
Had just buried my sins with a short iron shovel —
When out on the lawn there arose such a scream,
I crawled from the fetal position to abandon my dream.
Away to the window I shuffled and hunched,
Tore open my robe, and threw up my lunch.
The moon (which wasn't out) on the breast of the new fallen whore,
Gave the lustre of voidless horror to the bloody black gore;
When, what to my tear-ridden eyes should dissolve,
But a monstrous sleigh, stuffed with resolve,
With a little old driver, so creepy and quick,
I knew in a moment he was grabbing his prick.
More rapid than eagles his ejaculate came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:
"Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer and Vixen,
"On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen;
"To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
"Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As aimless goals before the wild distractions fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, give up and die;
So up to my window that mad man flew,
With the sleigh full of hope — and dried semen too:
And then in a shattering, I heard in my mind
The twisting and breaking of each little bind.
As I drew in my head, and was turning to gloom,
Down the ceiling that monster came spouting doom:
He was dress'd not at all, from his head to his balls,
Save a bib round his neck where spilled crimson falls;
A bundle of promises was flung on his back,
And he look'd like a pedophile just fondling his sack:
His eyes — how they rolled! His sorrow: how divine,
His cheeks were like cave-ins, his breath like bad wine;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like the gallows,
And the beard of his chin poisoned his skin, made it sallow;
The stump of a foot he held tight in his teeth,
And the infection it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broadsword, and a little round slave
That shook when he slapped it, that pitiful knave:
He was scrawny and broken, a right miserable elf,
And I wondered when I saw him, a fragment of myself?
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had everything to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
And fill'd all my worries; put hope in my flask,
And laying his finger inside of his nose
And giving a fart, 'twas my closet he chose.
He torched his own sleigh, set fire to my prison,
And it all burned away, like some dying sun:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he dripped cross the dell —
Good luck in school, boy, I'll see you in hell.