Twas the night before Dwarfmas, when all through the fort
All the creatures were Sleeping, down to the Consort;
The +Silk Socks+ were hung by the magma with care,
In hopes that St. Urist soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of last year's !!Elves!! swam in their heads;
And ma in her +Steel Cap+, and I in my +Cape+,
Had just begun +Kitten Biscuits+ to make,
When from the magma vent rose a loud yell:
"Curse all pathfinding! Armok damn it to hell!"
I ran to the vent's edge and there held my breath,
As grumbles and mutters arose from the depths.
The lurid red light of the magma below
Caused me to squint as I peered at the flow,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a magma-proof +Sleigh+, and eight trained War Reindeer,
With a driver, his face such a mask of distaste,
I knew it must be Urist Claus that I faced.
More rapid than fire imps his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them bad names;
"Now, Rutod! Now, Matul! Now, Dozeb and Sastosh!
On, Dolek! On Aval! On, Amud and Giken!
To the top of the vent! If anyone slacks,
They'll get a taste o' the butt o' me axe!"
As a +Steel Bolt+ that from the +Bronze Crossbow+ is launched,
To pierce a Gob Wrestler through Brain, Lung, and Haunch,
So up to the edge of the vent they did bound,
With a cartload of +Toys+ in a quantum-stacked mound.
The lead Reindeer snorted and showed me his teeth
While the rest commenced braying and strained at the leash.
As I drew back in fear, and was turning to run,
Urist Claus drew his axe and dealt them some Fun.
The magma had done for his clothing and cap
And only his beard kept things under wraps;
Covered in 'deer blood and shouldering his axe,
He looked like an Ironblood after attack.
His eyes -- how they gleamed like the eyes of one Fey!
His sideburns were plaited and starting to fray.
His mouth in perpetual grimace was drawn,
And he tugged at his belt tho' his pants were long gone;
The bung from a barrel he clenched in his teeth,
And alcohol vapors circled 'round like a wreath;
His face was a mixture of rage and of cheer,
As he aimed one last kick at the cowering Reindeer.
He was brawny and stout, a right fearsome old brute,
And spoke only in curses as he bent to his loot;
He shouldered his bag and he gave me a nod,
As off to the row of +Silk Socks+ he did plod;
Nothing but swears, as he finished his work,
+Toys+ for the kids and a Carp for the Clerk,
And then, after noisily cleaning his nose
Into the sock at the end of the rows,
He sprang to his sleigh, beat his team from their Rest,
And flew to the vent like someone Possessed,
But I heard him roar out, ere down he did sweep,
"Leave Ale out next year, or I'll kill ye all in yer sleep!"
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Topic: Comic to share with DF community (Read 6260 times)