Kris Kringle’s Bones

Wrote this two Christmases ago and it just keeps creeping out again every season:

Kris Kringle’s Bones
by Melanie Anne Phillips

(The night after the day after Christmas)

I was out of my stash,
and beginning to jones,
to the God-awful jangle,
of Kris Kringle’s Bones.

The children were hung,
by their necks until dead,
and the clues in the ooze,
on my suit, were all red.

The fairies were flattened,
the reindeer dismembered:
the piled up heap of,
their corpses was embered.

A great ghastly howl,
then arose from the fire.
I guess I had left some alive
in the pyre.

When what to my two,
bloodshot orbs should appear,
but a discarded joint,
half-submerged in a beer.

I fished out the doobie,
and chugged down the brew,
then danced like a newbie,
with a half-done tattoo.

I dried out the roach,
like a microwave dinner,
lit up, took a toke,
and then wept like a sinner.

“My God!” I implored,
in the true Christmas spirit,
“I am saved!” and I waved,
at the fire just to cheer it.

Then I noticed the children,
were not on the hearth,
and the pyre was a pile of toys,
topped by Darth.

My suit was still stained,
but the blotches of red,
were just jostled Cab Sav,
that had gone to my head.

And all ’round the condo,
there wasn’t a sound,
as I crept down the hall,
with a leap and a bound.

And I smiled as I faded,
‘twixt snorgles and moans,
at the absolute silence,
from Kris Kringle’s bones.

— and the weird part of writing this is that I don’t even smoke!