Twisted Christmas
Charles Suddeth
He is hairy, his beard down to his waist,
With billy goat’s horns and cloven hooves.
His forked tongue pokes through wolf fangs,
He is non-other than Hillbilly Krampus.
He drags long chains, flicks his whip,
Clangs a devilish dingy dinner bell,
Packs a burlap poke on his back,
Fills it with bad little boys and girls.
He drives a rickety old wagon,
Pulled by eight ornery mules,
All splay-footed and flop-eared,
Braying and bawling and belching.
He has his hellish little helpers,
Trolls and ogres and gnomes,
If you see any of them coming,
You better start flee for your life.
If you’re a good little boy or girl,
You have nothing at all to fear.
If you’ve been naughty or bad,
Saint Nick will never find you.
Krampus is meaner than a moonshiner,
The lucky ones, he drowns in creeks,
Still others get grilled and barbecued,
The unlucky ones get hauled off to Hell.
Now I believe in Santa Claus,
Always have, and always will.
Now of Krampus I have my doubts,
But I’m not taking any chances.
St. Nick, I’ve been good. Oh so very, very good!
C. T. Suddeth 
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