'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the morgue,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the...um...Borg. (Yeah, that's
it. Borg is science fictiony. This poetry crap isn't all that hard.)

The zombies were nestled all snug in their coffins,
While visions of juicy brains, ran through their . . . their . . . (Nuts! I'd
better come back to that one later.)

When out in the cemetery there arose such a ruckus,
I thought, "It's a succubus, come here to . . . (Hmm. Better not.)

I sprang from my crypt, and ran to the window,
Looking for signs of that netherworld bimbo.
When what to my pustulant eyes should appear,
But a battered up sleigh, and eight rancid reindeer. (Hey, I'm on a roll here.)

"It's Santa," I thought. "There's nothing to fear."
The old fart's been dead for over a year.
His flesh was rotting, his bruises were purple,
His scalp showed in patches, his beard was all . . . (Aaarrgghhh!!)

He wasted no time, and got to work with a cough.
He hefted his sack, and two fingers fell off.
He spoke not a word, but filled all the crypts,
With brains, and blood, and a pair of wax lips. (Hey, at least it rhymes.)

Then he sprang to his sleigh, and with a wave of his mitt,
Left in a cloud of dead reindeer sh . . . (Hmm . . . I'll edit that later.)

I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!

(What? You were expecting William Butler Yeats?)

S. K. S. Perry is a Master Corporal with the Canadian Armed Forces. His dream is to one day become independently wealthy, or even dependently wealthy -- he doesn't really care whose money it is as long as they let him spend it. For more about him, visit his Web site.