(Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)


'Snwuz the snight sleeslur Slistmas, steering shy of my spouse

    Not a speaker was slurring, not sneben a souse;

The smockings were slung by the schimbley with snares,

    In schnopes that Schank Schnickle-Schnack soon not swear;


The stepchildren were schnestled slightly stuck to their sleds;

    While swaths of snooker-scrums scampered in their sheds;

With shawarma on the ceiling, and me soon to be slapped,

    Sadly slurping sour spleens or such struggle-store scraps,


When the scores of suburban spawn slowly started to scatter,

    I sprang from my shed to see what had been shattered.

I scampered to the schwindow, like a salmon with a splash,

    I silenced the snitches and secretly stowed my stash.


The slime on the street had started to show,

    Sloppily served as supper if swallowed too slow,

When what to my screaming sphincter did I spy,

    But some shoddy sleigh six scrubs short of a sty,


With some seedy, sleazy screever so sly and so sick,

    I sensed in a second he must be Schank Schnick.


With the sociability of Smeegol, stained in sweat and spew,

    He slurred, and he scrambled, and shouted those he’d slew: "C'est

la vie, Slasher! See ya, Smasher! Spengler and Sleven!

    Sic semper Sonnet! Sayonara, Stupid! Shiner and Schlixzen!”


At the slope of the sidewalk, he had a severe sort of smell.

    Shouting, “Slash and slay! Slash and slay! Slashing is swell!"

Similar to a short circuit should the silicon get scratched,

    His sanity was in straits, and he ceremoniously smashed;


The slumberous and slothful he swore should be slain

    The sleigh smelled of stool, and Schnickle-Schnack the same—

And then, in a sprinkling, or so goes this spoof

    The scumbag stumped sinisterly on the slope of my stoop.


As I snatched my six-shooter and saw that I was screwed,

    Scaling my scaffolding, slumped this syphilitic Scrooge.

He was spiffed up in skins from several of his slaughters,

    From his scarf to his sandals he stood like a squatter;


A string of skulls he snapped with a smack,

    And he screamed like a salesman selling smallpox in a sack.

His stomach—how it sunk! his shins, how scary!

    His snickering was sickening, his scow how starey!


He had a sizable, slobbery smile to swallow your soul,

    And the spikes from his shoulders stylishly showed!

The stump of a slug he suckled smugly in his smiler,

    A salamander he stroked from some sorrowful shire;


He had a shriveled scalp and seemed severely smelly

    He sneered and snarled, like something by Mary Shelley.

Skinny and slump was his spiteful, sorry self,

    And I shuttered, as I saw him stumble straight into a shelf;


Sloshed, sozzled, sauced and also somewhat squiffy.

    He shot a smurky stare that was not one shred spiffy.

He sprung with a screech and a shriek of sorts,

    Sending me to shake in my shoes while soiling my shorts;


He spoke solely swearwords, which seriously sucked,

    And shredded all the smockings like some stupid schmuck!

And sliding his scratchers slowly to my skull,

    I shot that sick psycho in his stomach and scrotum small.


Startled, he screamed, sidelong he staggered,

    He squirmed, as he slipped, stripped of all swagger.

But I sensed him say, as he sped from the scene—

    “Schlappy Slistmas to all! And to all a sure scream!"




— END —