Santa's Twin
by Dean Koontz
W ell, now Thanksgiving is safely past,
more turkey eaten this year than last,
more stuffing stuffed, more yams jammed
into our mouths, and using both hands,
coleslaw in slews, biscuits by twos,
all of us too fat to fit in our shoes.
So let’s look ahead to the big holiday
that’s coming, coming, coming our way.
I’m sure you know just what day I mean.
It’s not Easter Sunday, not Halloween.
It’s not a day to be sad or listless.
It’s a day of wonder. It’s Christmas!
Charlotte and Emily love this season.
They’re kids, so they have good reason
to dream all year of that special eve
because they truly and deeply believe
a gift-giving fat man flies the sky,
with toys and goodies galore. No lie!
He’ll soon be up there and on his way
in a maximum-cool, cherry-red sleigh
with camouflage stars on the underside,
taking the wildest of all thrill rides,
like a roller coaster on tracks of air,
pulled by reindeer harnessed in pairs.
S o someday soon, they’ll put up a tree.
Why only one? Maybe two, maybe three!
Deck it with tinsel and baubles bright.
It’ll be an amazing and wonderful sight.
String colored lights out on the roof-
pray none are broken by anything’s hoof.
Salt down the shingles to melt the ice.
If Santa fell, it just wouldn’t be nice.
He might fracture his leg or even be cut,
perhaps even break his big jolly butt.
They don’t want Santa’s butt in a sling.
What a ghastly, bad, unthinkable thing.
Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news.
Hope it won’t give you Christmas blues.
Santa was mugged, tied up, and gagged,
blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and bagged,
locked in his cellar under the Pole,
down in a dismal, deep, dark, dank hole.
H ark! The sound of silver sleigh bells
echoes high over the hills and the dells.
And look-reindeer far up in the sky!
Some silly goose has taught them to fly.
The driver giggles quite like a loon-
a madman, a goofball, a thug, or a goon.
Something is wrong-any fool could tell.
If this is Santa, then Santa’s not well.
His mean little eyes spin just like tops.
So somebody better quick call the cops!
A closer look confirms his psychosis.
And-oh, my dear-really bad halitosis.
Beware when Christmas comes this year,
because there’s something new to fear.
Santa’s twin-who is rude and mean-
stole the sleigh, will make the scene.
He’s pretending to be his good brother.
Guard your beloved children, Mother!
Down the chimney and into your home,
here comes that deeply troubled gnome.
R eindeer sweep down out of the night.
See how each is brimming with fright?
Tossing their heads, rolling their eyes,
these gentle animals are all so wise-
they know this Santa isn’t their friend,
but an imposter and far ‘round the bend.
They would stampede for all they’re worth,
dump this nut off the edge of the earth.
But Santa’s bad brother carries a whip,
a club, a chocolate-cream pie at his hip,
a blackjack, spitballs-you better run!-
and a fearful, horrible, wicked ray gun.
They land on the roof, quiet and sneaky.
Oh, but this Santa is fearfully freaky.
He whispers a warning to each reindeer,
leaning close to make sure they hear:
“You have relatives back at the Pole-
antlered, gentle, quite innocent souls.
“So if you fly off while I’m inside,
back to the Pole on a plane I will ride.
I’ll have a picnic in the midnight sun:
reindeer pie, pate, reindeer in a bun,
reindeer salad, and hot reindeer soup,
oh, all sorts of tasty reindeer goop.”
A t the chimney, he looks down the bricks.
But that entrance is strictly for hicks.
With all his tools, a way in can be found
for a fat, bearded burglar out on the town.
From roof to backyard to the kitchen door,
he chuckles about what he has in store
for the good family that’s sleeping within.
He grins his biggest and nastiest grin.
Oh, what a creep, what a scum and a louse.
He’s boldly breaking into their house!
W ith picks, loids,
by Dean Koontz
W ell, now Thanksgiving is safely past,
more turkey eaten this year than last,
more stuffing stuffed, more yams jammed
into our mouths, and using both hands,
coleslaw in slews, biscuits by twos,
all of us too fat to fit in our shoes.
So let’s look ahead to the big holiday
that’s coming, coming, coming our way.
I’m sure you know just what day I mean.
It’s not Easter Sunday, not Halloween.
It’s not a day to be sad or listless.
It’s a day of wonder. It’s Christmas!
Charlotte and Emily love this season.
They’re kids, so they have good reason
to dream all year of that special eve
because they truly and deeply believe
a gift-giving fat man flies the sky,
with toys and goodies galore. No lie!
He’ll soon be up there and on his way
in a maximum-cool, cherry-red sleigh
with camouflage stars on the underside,
taking the wildest of all thrill rides,
like a roller coaster on tracks of air,
pulled by reindeer harnessed in pairs.
S o someday soon, they’ll put up a tree.
Why only one? Maybe two, maybe three!
Deck it with tinsel and baubles bright.
It’ll be an amazing and wonderful sight.
String colored lights out on the roof-
pray none are broken by anything’s hoof.
Salt down the shingles to melt the ice.
If Santa fell, it just wouldn’t be nice.
He might fracture his leg or even be cut,
perhaps even break his big jolly butt.
They don’t want Santa’s butt in a sling.
What a ghastly, bad, unthinkable thing.
Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news.
Hope it won’t give you Christmas blues.
Santa was mugged, tied up, and gagged,
blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and bagged,
locked in his cellar under the Pole,
down in a dismal, deep, dark, dank hole.
H ark! The sound of silver sleigh bells
echoes high over the hills and the dells.
And look-reindeer far up in the sky!
Some silly goose has taught them to fly.
The driver giggles quite like a loon-
a madman, a goofball, a thug, or a goon.
Something is wrong-any fool could tell.
If this is Santa, then Santa’s not well.
His mean little eyes spin just like tops.
So somebody better quick call the cops!
A closer look confirms his psychosis.
And-oh, my dear-really bad halitosis.
Beware when Christmas comes this year,
because there’s something new to fear.
Santa’s twin-who is rude and mean-
stole the sleigh, will make the scene.
He’s pretending to be his good brother.
Guard your beloved children, Mother!
Down the chimney and into your home,
here comes that deeply troubled gnome.
R eindeer sweep down out of the night.
See how each is brimming with fright?
Tossing their heads, rolling their eyes,
these gentle animals are all so wise-
they know this Santa isn’t their friend,
but an imposter and far ‘round the bend.
They would stampede for all they’re worth,
dump this nut off the edge of the earth.
But Santa’s bad brother carries a whip,
a club, a chocolate-cream pie at his hip,
a blackjack, spitballs-you better run!-
and a fearful, horrible, wicked ray gun.
They land on the roof, quiet and sneaky.
Oh, but this Santa is fearfully freaky.
He whispers a warning to each reindeer,
leaning close to make sure they hear:
“You have relatives back at the Pole-
antlered, gentle, quite innocent souls.
“So if you fly off while I’m inside,
back to the Pole on a plane I will ride.
I’ll have a picnic in the midnight sun:
reindeer pie, pate, reindeer in a bun,
reindeer salad, and hot reindeer soup,
oh, all sorts of tasty reindeer goop.”
A t the chimney, he looks down the bricks.
But that entrance is strictly for hicks.
With all his tools, a way in can be found
for a fat, bearded burglar out on the town.
From roof to backyard to the kitchen door,
he chuckles about what he has in store
for the good family that’s sleeping within.
He grins his biggest and nastiest grin.
Oh, what a creep, what a scum and a louse.
He’s boldly breaking into their house!
W ith picks, loids,
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