The Night Before Christmas

by Peter Gifford

‘Twas the night before Slush,
and all through the typing
the air was alive with whinging and griping
an hour to go and yet still no story
young Peter now felt
he would write something gory

It’s horror, he cried,
that I often fall back to
You can churn out the stuff even plonked on the loo
With twenty minutes to go and some Thai still to order
it’s a theme that so simple – it’s blood, and it’s moider

So he sat and he typed and he started this tale
it started one Christmas, after close of the sales
A young man went home, he went to his flat
There to meet with his wife, his young child and the cat

He opened the door, his wife stepped up to greet him
She ventured a smile but the joy it was fleeting
My darling, you’re late! she exclaimed with a grimace
What’s more it quite clear that you’re over the limit

Washa matter he slushed, and staggered into the light
You bastard she said, I can’t belive that you’re tight
So she took out a gun, and in front of the child
Shot him right in the guts, in the head and the side

I’m dying! he screamed and he lunged for the counter
And grabbing a knife, somehow managed to stab her
The kid started choking, the neighbours were bangin’
As he carved up her face like a freshly caught salmon

The cat with a screetch jumped up on his neck
There was blood everywhere, the place was a wreck
And then there were sirens, coming up from the street
The neighbours came out for this fine Xmas treat

So wife, and hubby, and small screaming child
Staggered out on the sidewalk and there they all died
No happy ould Christmas in this sad affair
Just bodies and blood on the pavement bare

There it’s finished, said Peter, and got up with a wink
Now shower, and dinner, it’s a shame there’s a chink
In this armour I’m wearing that I thought was quite fat
‘Cause the poem’s a problem, it’s actually crap.