A gruesome tale of Claus and effect

I got me a job as a store Santa Claus, In Rackingham’s grotto up on the sixth floor. They came up to see me, those sweet little mites, To find what they’s got for their Christmas delights. They appeared in their thousands, up stairs and in lifts, Eagerly queuing to pick up their gifts, These pure little cherubs with angelic smiles, Lined up to see me in singular file. After a while, though, impatience ensued. The youngsters were growing increasingly rude. One bright spark poked Rudolph’s behind with a stick, While another decided to land me a kick. Soon the occasion got way out of hand. Christmas was not going quite as I’d planned. They’d tied Rudolph up with some blue wrapping tape, And trimmed my white beard in a spherical shape! I thought at this point: ‘Something’s got to be done!’ I just didn’t share the kids’ idea of fun. I untied old Rudolph when things had died down. He was shell-shocked a bit, but was coming around. I decided a lesson had got to be taught. Revenge would be sweet for the havoc they brought. So I had just the thing when the first kid came in, All meek and mild with a broad sheepish grin. I gave him this helmet to take to his bed, He just had to put the thing tight on his head. It played bedtime stories — the sort for a lad, Helped him forget the excitement he’d had. As he dozed into slumberland, snug in the sheets, It induced tranquil feelings, dreams peaceful and sweet. But built into the hat were two rotary shears, And, pre-programmed by me, they chopped off the lad’s ears! Well, the sweetest of dreams had become a nightmare, What the hell would he do now his lugs were not there? He woke from his slumber depressed and downbeat, As he felt for his earholes from outside the sheets. To his mighty relief he felt one ear intact. On further inspection, both ears, in fact! So, don’t worry, for sometimes, things aren’t as they seem, The rotary shears were just part of the dream. And, I’m sure this will not be his favourite toy, But, for all your bad deeds, ‘THAT’LL TEACH YOU, MY BOY!’

P. Reid, Wolverhampton,

West Midlands.