Well, since tomorrow is Christmas, and I don’t have an amazing, inspirational Christmas-y sort of piece to post, I’ve decided to dig into the very, very ancient archive for a little holiday fun.

A really long time ago (as in, back in high school), I was given the assignment of writing and compiling some poetry (not my area of expertise, to say the least), for a class full of highly competitive and talented writers.  I muddled my way through some terrible rhymes and exaggerated prose to complete the assignment, with few redeemable results.  On this eve of Christmas, I am pathetically resorting to sharing one of these attempts at poetic profundity in an effort to spread some holiday cheer with as little effort as possible .  (Hey, I’ve got Santa duty, so cut me some slack.)

So, Merry Christmas, and here you go, my very own parody of the much-loved, classic Christmas poem, Twas the Night Before Christmas.  A tale which, at the time that I wrote this I was unaware, has inspired many fun parodies.

Twas the Nightmare Before Christmas

by Katie Aguilera

Twas the night before Christmas and all through my box,

not a creature was stirring, not even the lice in my locks.

My stockings were hung on a string so high,

in the hopes that by morning they would be dry.

I shivered and shook in my rags so thin,

while ice cubes formed in my bottle of gin.

My mutt in her blanket and I in my coat,

thoughts of Christmas a lump in my throat.

Out in the alley I heard a soft mutter,

so I sprang from my box and looked in the gutter.

Along the curb I flew like a flash,

tore open the dumpster, and threw out the trash.

The moon through the smog cast an eerie shadow,

upon the garbage still left below.

Turning my head, I gave a sudden start,

for behind me were eight sewer rats and a tiny shopping cart.

With a little round driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Tick.

Dirtier than pigs his coursers they came,

and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

On Smasher, on Cancer, on Packer, on Virus,

on Bomber, on Stupid, on Blunder, and Dufus.

To the center of the street to the edge of a crack,

now dash away, dash away, and upon their rumps a good whack.

And as newspapers before the wild wind scatter,

they mounted the sky with a rattle and a clatter.

So, up to my box the coursers they flew,

with a sleigh full of eggs, and wiggly St. Tick too.

And then in a blink with a little rodent leap,

they clambered on cardboard and fell in a heap.

I sank to my knees and into my box shoved my head,

and through a split-seam dropped St. Tick to my bed.

A thick suit of fur his body did boast,

torn, no doubt, from his last unlucky host.

A bundle of eggs he had flung on his back,

and he looked like a spider just opening her sack.

His eyes how they glinted, his feet how they tickled,

and with a sly smirk he chuckled and giggled.

His antennae curled and twisted in a way so droll,

and upon my bed he crept like a troll.

A stub of a toothpick lodged in his teeth,

a hint of tick-beard upon his chin underneath.

He had a bloated round belly and a tiny puffed face,

and he dashed to and fro at a fierce insect pace.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old beetle,

but I knew that his bite was like the prick of a needle.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

and I knew I had something terrible to dread.

He gave not a squeal but went straight to his work,

scattering his eggs with a twist and a jerk.

And laying his stick-leg aside of his nose,

and giving a twitch up the cardboard he rose.

He hopped to his sleigh and to his team gave a scream,

and away they all flew to the next stop in his scheme.

But I heard him exclaim as they drove out of sight,

Creepy Christmas to all, and to all a crawly good night!