A Hoader's Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house.
Lay a hot dirty mess,
Full of droppings of mouse.


The children were nestled,
In their beds oh-so-bare.
As they dreamt of the hoard,
And its mount of despair.


In the dark he appeared,
That big saint, Santa Claus.
He looked at the home,
Held his nose with a pause.


He peered down the chimney,
Down its sooty, black hole.
And knew in his heart,
This way he shant go.


The back door was jammed,
It simply was stuck.
Stacked with litter and trash,
Like an old garbage truck.


The windows were frosty,
Piles of junk strewn around.
Cobwebs in corners,
Food scraps on ground.


All around him was trash,
Up to his head, then some more.
He stepped on the rubbish,
That doubled as floor.


Something moved under foot,
Mice running fast on the go.
He sprinted outside,
And yacked in the snow.


He wiped the mess off,
And composed him anew.
But heaved one more time,
This time it was stew.


Back in the house,
He went to the tree.
To leave lots of presents,
For this hoarding family.


He cleared off a space,
Under that scant little tree.
And laid the gifts down,
For all them to see.


The deed was now done
The toys delivered with care.
He picked up the cookie,
And milk they left there.


The cookie he lifted,
To his mouth he did press.
Not realizing that he,
Was standing in dog mess.


“That’s the last straw”
Said the humble, old man.
And he wiped off his boots,
With some rusty old can.


With a twinkle in eye,
He said with a nod:
“I can do nothing for them,
Have mercy, dear God.”


He jumped in his sleigh,
He shot off to the border.
And yelled as he left,
“Merry Christmas dear hoarders”