Merry Christmas. Here’s a poem for you.

I came across this little variation of “The Night Before Christmas” and thought you’d enjoy. It was written by Steven Chapman, and it is a lot of fun for those of us who love horror.

I sincerely hope you are all having a great Christmas, and that Santa brought you everything you asked for.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was living, not even a mouse.
The corpses were hung by the chimney with care,
Strung up with nooses made out of their hair.

The children were chopped up and placed in their beds,
Some missing an arm, some missing their heads.
And mamma was diced, and sliced like a rat,
Her fat squishy brains all over the mat.

Out on the lawn was spread much grey matter,
And up all the walls some graphic blood spatter.
On the panes of the windows, a big fat red splash;
Tore open intestines entangled the sash.

A snipped off breast plucked at by a crow,
Gave such colour to the everyday snow.
When all of a once a cop passes quite near,
Assess the carnage with a terrified sneer.

He slams on the brakes and rushes impulsive,
The sights in the house were rather repulsive.
But the killer still there, stabs him right in the spleen,
The cop screamed, and shouted, and bellowed obscene!

“Now backup! Now help! Now somebody save me!
There’s a terrible killer who seems a tad crazy!
At the end of the street, the last house on the left,
A house full of carnage, a house full of death!”

And I watched from my window, safe across the street,
As he chopped up the copper, a butcher with meat.
Then he turned and he pointed, right at my own house,
And my bowels they did stir, unlike that old mouse.

But then, my heart twitching, I heard on the roof
Clawing and scraping of otherworldly hoof.
I peeked through the glass and into the night,
As Santa Claws continued his show of delight.

He was dressed all in skin, a flesh suit with a hood,
And his body was tarnished with entrails and blood.
A sack full of victims he had flung over his shoulder,
I shivered with fright as if the air had grown colder.

His eyes, how they twinkled! With maniacal glee,
Each of his pupils, one, two, and three.
His slit of a mouth, tongue dashing from jaws,
Tasting the air, then the blood on his claws.

The stump of a leg he held tight in his teeth,
Blood encircled his beard like a nightmare-filled wreath.
A distended stomach, against which his suit did strain,
That shook when he laughed, like a freshly-scooped brain!

He was greasy and slimy, a disturbing old slight,
And I wept when I saw him, my heart full of fright!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I may soon be dead.

But he spoke not a word, and went straight back to work,
Filleting the family, turning flesh into jerk.
And laying a finger aside, then a nose,
And giving a nod, as his food pile rose.

A mouthful of flesh as he chewed on the gristle,
The hairs on my neck all started to bristle.
But he winked at me again; his next victim that night,
“A Bloody Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!”

Steven Chapman

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