Mr. B’s Night Before Christmas
Mr_Bloggy on December 22 at 8:07 p.m.
Twas the Night of the Living Dead Before Christmas (Part 1)
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was living, not even a mouse;
The stockings were torn from the chimney with hate,
In hopes that St. Nicholas would always be late;
The children were wrestled and slugged in their beds,
While visions of torn thumbs shrieked in their heads;
And mamma in her death-rattle, and I torn and scabbed,
Had just settled down for eternity’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
More zombies shambling and chewing brain matter.
Away to the window I lunged like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the cat.
The moon on the breast of the now-bloody snow
Gave the bluster of death-bray to bodies below,
When, what to my blundering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so tasty and slick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
