Eggnog, eggnog burbling bright

In the daytime of the night.

What vile straw wouldst pierce or glide

Into your sweet eggnogahide?

Should you be-eth sipped or chugged?

Or gazed upon in reindeer mug?

You feel so inhuman to consume

I may just have to leave the room.

Else I grasp with unhinged jaw

And pour your essence twixt my maw.

Then gulp you slip slide down my gullet

Your life long gone as I just stole it.

Yes, I have urges dark as ink you

Must have guessed I aim to drink you!

Make your peace with kith and kin

As down the hatch you’re travelin’!

Eggnog I cannot help my wishes

You’re the one who’s so delicious!

Eggnog, eggnog burbling bright

In the daytime of the night.


Santa Kringle’s sixty-six minus sixty arms were busily wrapping, wrapping, wrapping, wrapping, wrapping & in his red fur-lined pocket. The hands not pocketed were red-lined so as not to be enveloped in envy. Fleet fingers fly nimbly & numbly as they build and sew, ebb and flow, bob, carol, ted and alice all the toys for all the slumbering children of the green and blue globe.

Mrs. Claus-Kringle, her face a rose, petals curled at the edge in concern. “Dear, dear Santa, dear, dear you. Do not work yourself into a tizzy, or to an early grave.” Her rosy eyes weep pinkish tears as Santa works on and on into the night. His countenance is counting ants as they scutter and scatter his cookie crumb beard. But he must not be distracted, not by nature, not by nurture. Partner and pismire go unheeded.

It is already Christmas Eve, and the reindeer, reined in by starlight and snowflake are fueled and consumed by flight desire. Comet craves the crest of the horizon, while Dasher dances in anticipation of weightlessness, worrying the snowfall. Blitzen worries about another year beginning late. His antlers are ants scurrying about his skull electrically, like holiday lights poisoned into life.

Of course, Santa’s arms do not capitulate and all goes off without a hitch. Mrs. Kringle-Claus, her face now a dandelion, floats tufts of dandelion fur to trim her hubby’s coat. Her pride in his work is tempered only by his disinterest in it. Santa’s magic has no magic, his calling transmogrified to job after centuries of the yearly grind. His beard is thistles and his heart is a bus full of dinosaur bones.

Finally, he takes to his sleigh and yells, “Onward ho ho ho!” The reins of the sleigh ablaze with a trillion billion lightning bolts crackle and thoom through the snowy snowstorm. The reindeer lift and coagulate, become jellydeer to more fluidly traipse the space-time continuum. Then, like a collapsed giraffe, time and space freeze, melt, ooze and bleed slowly away, as Santa sallies further, Father Christmas chrysalised by paused chronology. Sluicing down chimneys and crayfishing along carpets, depositing toys and goodies in his wake. And just like that, Christmas Eve is Christmas Day, in the blink of a Slinky. And Santa slumbers, whilst Mrs. Krins-Claugley, her head a kudzu vine, wraps herself in the warmth of Santa’s snooze.

All’s well that ends? Well, not quite. There was the boy Quincy O’Squirg whose hounds tooth coat was made of terrier teeth, Ryan Green-Lawbster whose train set sneezed into an army of ants, and sweet Melissy Sinissy whose Betsy Wetsy proved pee-shy. And the less said about Louise DuBurse who got herself in reverse, the better. But memories are made of strange things, like olive pits and left socks. And in the cool calm ocean of transience, only one thing is constant: Christmas is once a year, except for when it isn’t.


Sneaking softly, Secret Santa hides around the house.

Twinkle tiptoes trip upstairs as quiet as a mouse.

Peepless creeping into rooms ensuring slumbering tots.

Bannister sliding down the steps avoiding creaky spots.

Secret Santa like a ninja plants toys under Christmas trees.

Quietly he sucks down milk and leaves no crumbs from cookies.

Up and down the chimney like a whisper no one ever said.

It’s all the more impressive when you realize he’s heavyset.

Yes, eagle-eyed booby traps and hidden cameras can’t-a

Capture even a split second image of Secret Santa.


One day, a man with a beard asked the snowman, “Snowman, what is your greatest wish?”

Snowman thought a moment, then said, “Well, I do love a thick and sweet chocolate malted.

And I’m oh so happy skipping merrily through a snowy meadow.

And nothing compares to a big hug from a dear friend.

But my greatest wish is to be a volunteer firefighter!” he exclaimed. “To battle the crimson flame! Douse the burning structures and valiantly brave the back drafts and save the orphaned grandmothers and their fluffy, fluffy kittens from the crumbly, crumbly homes!”

“Yes, but as a snowman, would you not melt in the fire?” the man with a beard asked. But the snowman was sniffing the air with his carrot for a nose.

“Jingle jangle, I believe I smell smoke!” he said, dashing through the snow. And sure enough, he came across a burning dog house.

“Never fear, cowering pups, I shall save you!” the snowman said. He was, however, melting in the heat of the flames.

“Snowman, be careful!” the man with a beard shouted. But it was too late. The snowman had melted into his old top hat, coal eyes and carrot nose bobbing in the pool of snowman that once was.

“Quick! Toss me at the fire!” the pool of snowman that once was said. The man with a beard did just that, and immediately the flames were extinguished.

“Oh, thank you, you saved my home,” Dr. Basset Hound said tearfully.

“Just doing my job,” replied the snowman puddle, “Just doing my job.”


‘Twas the poem for Christmas and all through the stanzas
Were the megawatt charms of six billion Tony Danzas.

There were chestnuts a-roasting and fires a-open,
Santa was Clausing and the Pope was a-popin’.

The eight tiny reindeer, including Donder and Blitzen
Enjoyed dinner on Santa, no check needed splitzen.

And sugar plums danced in the heads of the young,
Rhythmic food dreams that confounded even Karl Jung.

Nice children had no fear of being inspected
But Gregor Samsa awoke to find himself insected.

An airborne sleigh was driven by old Kris Kringle
With dollies and trains and an anteater for Aram Fingal.

And snow everywhere was falling to Earth,
Except in San Tropez, Chile, Johannesburg and Perth.

Jesus returned, patting everyone’s backs
With a novelty t-shirt that said, “Frankincense Relax.”

The Nutcracker Suite employed many a ballerina,
Whilst Bea Arthur was employed by Mos Eisley Cantina.

Frosty found magic in an old silk hat,
And Louis Armstrong found magic in skibbity-scat.

And Santa spoke up, imploring all to be merry
Being nice is the nicest; it’s hip to be squarey.

And I heard him exclaim from his lips, tongue and jaw,
“Fa la la la la la la la la.”