Friday, December 24, 2010

'Twas the Night Before Christmas






'Twas the night before Christmas, and all ‘round the ‘tute
The dimwits were sleeping, the sight is not cute.
The restraints were hung by the chimney with care,
It’s for their own safety and general welfare;

The misfits were locked in their dormitory with beds,
They’re really no more than slow-thinking pinheads;
And Mrs Kfred in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
He’d be the one to visit our mentally sick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called the dimwits by name;
"Now, Freako! now, Gummo! and Dickie the Peap!
Wake up you slow whacko’s; you need no more sleep!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
He knew of these idiots I suffer each day,
He couldn’t believe I had chosen to stay.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
Some brand new straightjackets he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Replacing old tethers with an all knowing smirk,
He knew the great burden I constantly bear,
Sometimes I think, "I’m in a giant daycare,"

"Now Kfred," he boomed, “Don’t Worry, Don’t fuss,
All people have seen them aboard the short bus,
Most readers know they are all mental midgets,
Their collective IQ is but one single digit”,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
“I’m glad I’m not you:  None of those idiots seem right!”


(with profuse apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

4 comments:

  1. And there should profuse apologies to the upstanding citizens that allow you to malign them on a regular basis to bolster your failing self concept. May the Ghost of Christmas Present bring Sainthood to your poor suffering Spouse, you demented illegitimate typist.

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  2. Checking in now as the arbiter of decency, I note that the persona of the little over- priced elf that Dickey the Peap normally assumes has now changed into that of one as a "victim."

    In regard to the Sainthood for Mrs. Kfred: Don't bother. She knows the short-armed thing will never be cured.

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  3. A phlegmatic comeback as usual. Mrs. Kfred's Sainthood has nothing to do with whether I have supposed long or short arms as you contend. If you fed us better at FTI, I would not feel so much a "victim". But you are about as cheap as I am.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Ok, I actually guffawed through this instead of my usual chortle.

    ReplyDelete

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