‘Tis goodwill season and the Devil’s fuming.
Despite different addresses (one red-hot, another ice cold), post destined for the pole keeps appearing. Incorrect grammar’s the reason: lists from mixed-up kids who can’t spell S-A-N-T-A. Both wear red, keep company with knee-high entities, but there the similarities end.
Sickened, Old Nick’s quick to teach Saint Nick a lesson: Christmas isn’t white, but crimson.
Come the twenty-fifth, he’s found the sleigh, sniggering, “Naughty or nice, everyone’s due a surprise. Something shocking in their stocking—not Jingle bells, but Hell’s bells and buckets of blood!”
Hidden in Santa’s bed—nine severed reindeer heads.
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