Nightiful Crispness c Michael Regan

The Words: 'Twas a nightiful crimson, when all through the halls, Not a crinkle did crackle the plasterful walls. The chimney was slung on the stocky ol' bear In hopes Sandy Clothespin would soonly pass air. The children lay crumpled up under their beds, While visions of motorbikes roared through their heads. I lay on the mattress, the wife on the cot. We had just settled down for the winter to rot; When, out in the swamp, such a damnable clamor, I fell outa bed as I reached for the hammer. I tore off the curtains, and busted the winder, Leaned me head over, and threw up me dinner. And, there, through my tears, on the glass in the snow lay the shards of the moonlight on the vomit below. When what to me wonderful eyeballs appeared; But a late Halloweener whose costume was weird. Instead of just driving a Volvo like most, He insisted on harnessing horny ol' goats. One snort of his pipe, then he sprinkled their hoofs. I don't know what he smokes, but he floats to the roof. Where he musta been bustin' up half of the shingles. After milking his goats, then he called himself Kringle Then into the chimney he dove like a bat landing all sooty and squashing his hat. I knew in a moment, the fat little Commie, I could tell by his sack of atomic salami His shoes, how they twinkled, his dimples, how dumpy, His features, how wrinkled, his pimples, how bumpy. But, what kind of thief would leave goodies instead? He gobbled some cookies and milk, and he fled. I figgered it must be a ...



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