Poem: The Elf Who Saved Christmas (Part 1)

’Twas a month out from Christmas, so it goes, without fail,

A big pile of bills arrived in the mail,

With a letter marked urgent, addressed from the bank,

And when Santa read it, his jolly heart sank.

 

Now facing foreclosure unless debts were paid,

Santa went to the shed where he kept his red sleigh,

And reaching up high to the very top shelf,

Well beyond reach of any small elf,

He took down a bottle of 80 proof rum,

And a small iron safe that contained a handgun.

 

He drank himself numb as the evening grew late,

Then with fat, clumsy fingers he opened the safe.

He pressed the gun barrel to the roof of his mouth,

Then thought, I’ll be damned if I give them the house.

 

So he put down the gun and searched through his tools,

’Til he found his old blowtorch and three drums of fuel.

Then all through the night he toiled non-stop,

Dousing in petrol the old toy workshop.

He lit the blowtorch with a tear in his eye,

As the first rays of Arctic sun did arise.

 

But before he could send the old shop up in flames,

He heard a shrill voice come yelling his name,

“Santa! Hey, Santa! What on earth are you doing?”

But Santa fell over and just started spewing.

 

A shocked little elf came running through the snow,

And got rid of the blowtorch with a mighty elf throw.

He sat Santa upright and slapped his red face,

And said, “You old drunk! You almost burned down the place!”

Santa just blubbered like a child in fear,

And dribbled some vomit down his long white beard.

 

The elf had pity on Santa as he cried,

He hadn’t been the same since Mrs Claus died.

“I’m sorry, young Binkle,” Santa Claus mumbled,

“I fear that I’ve brought upon us some trouble,

You know Mrs Claus always did the accounting,

Well without her to help me the bills have been mounting.

It seems we have reached a point past return,

They’re taking the toyshop—I’d sooner watch it burn.”

 

Santa took a crumpled paper from his coat,

And showed it to Binkle—the foreclosure note.

Binkle perused the note without flinching,

Then nodded and said, “Santa, I’ve got an inkling,

The bank won’t be taking the shop off your hands,

Christmas will be going ahead just as planned.”

 

So Binkle heaved Santa up off the cold snow,

And ushered him back to his big empty home,

Where he helped upstairs and put him in bed,

And gave him two tablets to help “soothe his head”,

Though it wasn’t exactly some aspirin he gave,

He’d acquired the pills at an underground rave.

 

Well with Santa sinking into a four-day rest,

Binkle departed and gathered some friends,

And said, “Listen up lads, I need help on a job,

It’s pretty high-risk but it shouldn’t take long.

The smiles of children is what is at stake,

And the money—you’ll all get a piece of the take.”

 

Seven brave elves raised their hands, they were in,

Plus two willing reindeer, the job could begin.

They loaded their gear, and without a goodbye,

They slipped through the darkness late in the night.

 

© 2019 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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