The chimney is spiked, stockings stuffed with glass,
If Santa claws through, you’ll shank his fat ass.
You ate all the cookies, milk poured down the drain.
“You are so clever,” you think in your brain.
That’s enough rhyming, you think as you hop.
Oh no, oh crap, you just cannot stop.
Something is wrong, you think with a panic.
What is happening now? I’m going quite manic.
I have an idea—it might just be crazy,
I can barely think; my mind is all hazy.
I need a hard word, something like orange.
That way I can’t rhyme. It’s... hard... too... porange?
With a mental crack, you break free of Santa’s mind control and no longer have to rhyme.
“What the hell, man? I hate being controlled like that! He must be getting close.”
Turns out you might be right. You hear deep, heavy thumps on the roof.
He’s here.