Mrs. Claus Was In A Tizzy

Mrs. Claus was in a tizzy,
Her cupboard, it was bare.
And, the pantry that once was full,
Now held naught but air.

What to do? What to do?
That fat man needs his food.
When Santa can’t feed his blubber,
He’s in such an awful mood.

She’d no answer to her problem,
‘Till she spied her little helper, Sam.
“What the Hell,” said she,
“These elves taste just like ham.”

**

Ol’ Zeke

Ol’ Zeke lived on the mountain,
High above the plain.
He lived the life of a hermit.
Some say he was less than sane.

When the first chilly winds of winter
Blew through the cracks of his cabin door,
Ol’ Zeke said, “This Christmas, I wants me a present.”
He’d never gotten one before.

Zeke set to writin’ a letter.
He scratched it out with coal.
“Dear Mister Santa Claus,
How ya’ll at that North Pole?

“Santa, fetch me a woman.
She can be tall or short.
I’m sayin’ size don’t really matter none.
She don’t even have to be smart.

“She can even be a fureighner.
Yeah, one of them thar French tarts.
My only requirement
Is that she have all the right parts.

“It’s not companionship I’m after.
Hot sex is the name of my game.
You ain’t never brought me nothin’,
Don’t let this year be the same.”

Zeke mailed of his letter.
And, that very next Christmas Day,
Santa granted his request
In his own special magical way.

Now, there’s a catchy little saying
That Zeke’s case would surely fit:
“Be careful what you ask for,
‘Cause that’s what you might get.”

If you’re ever in the neighborhood,
Drop by ol’ Zeke’s, if you get a chance.
He’ll introduce you to his ‘Fifi’…
His life-size, erotic blow-up doll from France.

**

If Santa Were A Pirate

If Santa were a pirate,
Would Yuletide be no more?
On Christmas Eve, he’d rob us,
The rich and then the poor.

Rudolph would still be his pilot,
Now sporting a leg of wood.
And, Comet would wear an eye-patch,
As every one-eyed swashbuckler should.

From his sleigh, Old Nick would fly the ‘Roger’.
Jolly as ever before.
And his “Yo, ho, ho!” would be answered
With each roof-top-cannon’s roar.

Children would send him letters.
“Please, Santa, spare our house.”
And the elves would surely laugh at these,
While they swilled rum ’till quite soused.

Carolers would sing a warning,
As we bared chimney, window, and door.
Damned if Fat Red wouldn’t run you through.
‘Twould be a season of bloodthirsty gore.

Baby Jesus would come to save us!
Hell yeah, that boy’s okay!
He’d snatch up that old fart,
And make him change his evil way.

But, Santa’s not a pirate,
And Christmas is still full of cheer.
My concern now turns to Easter.
You know, that bunny was committed last year.

**

All three poems were previously published in Splizz.