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Twas The Night -mare- Before Christmas
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I stayed up all night Christmas Eve just to see him,
that jolly, old fellow with rosy-red cheeks,
but no way on earth did THIS dude look like Santa,
I couldn't believe what I saw when I peeked!
His tummy was far from a bowl full of jelly,
his suit, sad to say, was of Nike descent,
I'm sure the North Pole wasn't where he resided,
my hunch was a condo for this voguish gent.
Clean shaven was he with a tan deep and golden,
his feet sported Reeboks, his build lean and firm,
so opposite he from my version of Santa,
if taking his place he had much left to learn.
Well, try as I might I just could not envision,
a beard on his chin or a pipe in his teeth,
and couldn't quite harness a sneaky suspicion-
this phony Kris Kringle just might be a thief!
But as I stood watch I became less a doubter,
when eyeing the cellular phone that he wore,
and as he perused a methodical gift list,
a 'Toys R Us' catalog fell to the floor.
He scanned through the book and he jotted down items,
the nerve of that jerk, placing orders so swift,
I cringed at the sight of 'Millennium Santa',
in such a fat hurry to Fed-X the gifts!
Right there and then I felt mad as a hornet,
but smirked as I watched him in spite of myself-
scarfing down cookies that lay on the table,
and burping out loud--the ill-mannered, old elf!
Now, call me old-fashioned, but I was still waiting,
for sugarplum fairies to dance in my head,
and hooves on the roof from an octet of deer as,
they came to a halt out in front of a sled.
The stockings were hung on the mantel expecting,
a clutter of trinkets; a bevy of treats,
to my disappointment, he opened his wallet,
and shoved a crisp bill down each one of the feet!
I stood there bewildered by all of the changes,
the years made in Christmas since I was just small-
what happened to Dancer or Prancer and Blitzen,
and chestnuts and eggnog or decking the hall??
I woke in a sweat from this Yuletide nightmare,
"It's all too commercial! It's NOT like before!"
Then raced to the bookcase in search of MY Christmas...
between the frayed covers of Clement C. Moore.
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