Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
The children were sleeping, the parents were soused.
The doors were all locked and bolted with care,
St. Nicholas won't come -- he wouldn't dare.
The children were shivering, three to a bed,
While visions of violence danced in their heads.
Mama and Papa were passed out cold,
They'd never believe what they'd soon behold.
Out in the yard, there arose such a clatter,
A lone man struggling to put up a ladder.
He climbed to the rooftop smack dab in the center,
To look for a way that he might enter.
A simple chimney in disrepair,
Old and unused, and drafty with air.
Where meager heat rose, his climb down begins,
No windows broken or doors busted in.
In he dropped and down he went,
Halfway no more, stuck and oddly bent.
His coat all bunched, up to his face, up to his eyes,
Muffles his sounds and quiets his cries.
Christmas morning, it comes and it goes,
A day like all others, the same joys and woes.
Two nights later, not that it mattered,
Some kid came along and left with the ladder.
Then one day there arose in the hall,
A sickly smell that seemed to come from the wall.
They followed it round, as though with greed,
To the chimney, for sure, they all agreed.
With flashlights from crouches they looked up to see,
Nothing but darkness, what else would there be?
So up to the roof the father climbed quickly,
And looked from above and soon became sickly.
For what did he see but two arms reaching upward,
And two holes for eyes, it was all so absurd.
A dessicated corpse in bright red jacket and cap,
Trapped in a chimney like a rat in a trap.
He called the police and cried, "You'll never believe!
Santa is real, I'm not here to deceive,
He's dead in my chimney and I think I might heave,
He stinks to high heaven, and there's reason to grieve--
He's been stuck in there since Christmas Eve!"