The Stockings Were Hung by the Chimney with Dread

’Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the house
not a creature was stirring,
not even a mouse;
the stockings were hung by the chimney with dread,
in hopes that the children would not be found dead.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of Hope had danced in their heads;
and momma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our guns for a restful Christmas nap.

But out on the lawn there arose such a clutter,
that I leapt out of bed and I started to stutter:
“Oh, no, no, no, could it be? I must hope that Saint Nicholas
just came for some tea!”

I charged the stun,
and hoped for no such fun,
and peeked out the window before jumping the gun;
and to my great surprise I saw
Dasher and Dancer, horns and all.

The rider wasted no time,
ringing the door chime;
I could see he was not slowing down.
So I opened the door,
pleading mercy for the poor,
though it seemed to not be enough;
he grabbed the boar,
off a table for four,
and swung it straight at my earmuffs.

Then Dasher, then Dancer, then Prancer and Vixen;
then Comet, then Cupid, then Donner and Blitzen;
they charged the door;
through the boar,
toward my children’s wall,
they bashed away,
smashed away, ’twas quite a maul!

The rider looked down with a pitiful glare,
that bore through my soul like an arrow through the air;
though he noticed my crying and wiped my tears up,
with only a hint of the sorrow I cupped.

His muscular body,
cloaked in red,
seemed to pain my heart like my children’s small beds;
his entirety seemed to be laughing at me, though alas,
what can I do but accept it wholeheartedly?

He spoke no more,
my weapon on the floor,
he simply walked out of the room;
when he turned away,
all that I could hear,
was perhaps a small little “poof”

But I heard him exclaim,
ere he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Perhaps the night was good for his life,
but not for me,
but not for my wife.