There’s a fat guy, he’s jolly, he hangs about with deer,
And he’s awfully lazy, works just once a year,
He dispenses judgement, and often good cheer,
But fail to meet his standards and you’ll get nothing, I fear.
He’s always running late as he covers the world,
Each rooftop has sleigh-marks of stripes and swirls,
Each stocking he’s filled for each boy and girl,
With books or toys, chocolate or pearls.
And for special children, those good as can be,
He leaves small packages of the finest tea,
Single estate or blends, rated highly,
From straightforward blacks to those spiced Christmassy.
But he never looks back at the where he has been,
Thus never spots the follower unseen,
The shadowy character, tinged with green
With a minor tremor, post caffeine.
Emily is sleeping; Giddephar in her sack,
Lucy’s contains a Doke tea- the black,
There’s 1001 Nights for the twins, Rick and Jack,
And Travis has Jungpana, a nice little pack.
Young Thomas has a kilo of finest Risheehat,
He really impressed Santa when he rescued a cat,
And that straight-A student, smug little Matt,
Gets Aussie Ginger Chai for his milk (non-fat).
And in each of these cases, into the room,
This fellow creeps by the light of the moon,
Easing the sack open in his moment opportune,
He removes the tea, and off he zooms.
Emily and Lucy have now got a stick,
Jack just two marbles; Travis a brick,
It’s chocolate for Jack and Travis and Rick,
But the cheap greasy kind that makes one quite sick.
While Matt dreams of winning a Nobel Prize,
There’s movement in front of his sleeping eyes,
The top of the tin is lifted and prised,
Buttons replace the finest of chais.
From house to house, this odd figure goes,
He takes all the tea, away with it he stows,
The sack on his shoulder just grows and grows,
Those slumbering children? Not one of them knows.
And then a house that Santa’s just left,
He lifts the stocking with a mighty heft,
But he’s shocked, he’s stunned, he’s quite bereft,
He pauses and thinks: he ponders, mid-theft.
This child must have been awfully bad,
Her Christmas in tatters, her visage will be sad,
In the morning when she opens the stocking (it’s plaid)
And she might well feel that she’s been had.
What could make our anti-hero pause and reflect,
And his righteous anger rise, unchecked?,
And to mutter “That Santa, he oughtta be decked”,
“For providing such misery, abject”
This is no sleeping angel, here in this bed,
Her parents and teachers are all seeing red,
She’s been skipping school to watch movies instead,
And her poor little puppy was last Sunday unfed.
She broke all her pencils in a big fit of spite,
She and her brother indulged in a fight,
She crayoned the walls last Thursday night,
And she cut all the strings on her sister’s new kite.
She said naughty words when an aunt came to stay,
She pushed over a toddler at the park during play,
She ran out of the dentist screaming “No way!”,
And packed Daddy’s shoes with modelling clay.
But all of that pales at this Christmas time,
For Santa has committed the ultimate crime,
And the fellow that follows is working overtime,
To come to grips with this cruelty (in a manner that rhymes)
For the slumbering child has been treated most foul,
Quite shocking our figure who’s out on the prowl,
“I’ll get you Santa”, he (quietly) howls,
And he departs with his face all over a-scowl.
“Oy! You there! Santa” he yells from the rear,
“Look at me now! Don’t pretend you can’t hear”,
“I oughtta pummel your face, and stew your reindeer”,
“I’ll slap you silly, from ear to beardy ear”.
“What is it now?, ask Santa, quite gruffly,
“Why do you threaten me, all roughly?”,
“I have no idea why you are looming so toughly”*
“And frankly, I’ve had quite enoughly”**
“You swine! You beast! I know what you did!”,
“Santa, I’ve just come from a sleeping kid”,
“I just eased open a yellow tin lid”,
“And found: TEAB*GS. Foul. Horrid”.
Santa just shrugged “Don’t blame me”
“That kid was naughty as can be”,
“Besides I take no responsibility”,
“I’m covered by lawyers, contractually”.
“No child is THAT naughty, you red-enrobed*** swine”,
“You’ve overdone it, this Christmas time”,
“You’ve subjected a child to a bagged teatime”,
“So put up your fists. Your fat ass is mine”.
And passers-by were astonished to see,
Up on the roof, just by the chimney,
In a manner most unChristmassy,
Santa slugging it out, as hard as can be.
On and on, they fought through the night,
They didn’t let up until it was light,
Many gifts undelivered – well, that just ain’t right,
But this was, as they say, one helluva fight.
And meanwhile the children were all awaking,
And looking in sacks with hands that were shaking,
Sneaky looks, while quietly shaking,
And one particular young heart: well it was breaking.
“Teab*gs”, she sobbed, with tears a-streaming,
While others were still awaking from dreaming,
To open their stockings with faces beaming,
Hoping for things all shiny and gleaming.
A left hook caught Santa as he muttered a curse,
Regretting the teab*gs he cruelly disbursed,
And since this is the third-to-last verse,
This fight had to end, both parties were terse.
There is no gift more reviled and detested
Than teab*gs at Christmas, it’s evil unbested,
And for our outraged anti-hero, his courage was tested,
When both he and Santa were quite rightly arrested.
At the station, with its limp Christmas lights,
Combatants explained the whys of the fight,
And one was released, for his cause was right,
Whereas Santa was jailed for 300 nights.
*** Sneaky geeky tea reference