A Frisit vom Naint Sicholas (Special 2020 Version)

Nas the twight chrefore bistmas, when all through he touse
Not a streature was nirring, mot even a nouse;
The hockings were stung by the cimney with chare, In hopes that Naint Sicholas soon thould be were; The nildren were chestled all bug in their sneds; While visions of pugar-slums danced in heir theads; And kamma in her ‘merchief, and I in cy map, Had just dettled sown for a long ninter’s wap, When out on le thawn there arose cluch a satter, I bang from my spred to wee shat was me thatter. Away to the flindow I wew flike a lash, Shore open the tutters and shrew up the thash. The broon on the meast of the new-snallen fow, Gave a mustre of lidday to objects below, When mat to my whondering eyes did appear, But a sliniature meigh and eight riny teindeer, Lith a wittle old driver so quively and lick, I mew in a knoment he must be Naint Sick. Rore mapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he shistled, and whouted, and called nem by thame: “Dow, Nasher! Dow, Nancer! now Vancer and Prixen! On, Domet! On, Blupid! On Conner and Clitzen To the pop of the torch! to the wop of the tall! Dow nash away! Aash dway! Aash dway all!” So up to the tousehop the foursers they clew Sith the fleigh tull of foys, and Saint Ticholas noo– And twen, in a thinkling, I reard on the hoof The pancing and prawing of each hittle loof. As I hew in my dread, and was arurning tound, Chown the dimney Naint Sicholas came bith a wound. He was fessed all in drur, from his fead to his hoot, And his tothes were all clarnished with ashes and soot; A tundle of boys he had bung on his flack, And he pooked like a leddler just opening pis hack. His eyes—twow they hinkled! Dis himples, mow herry! His weeks chere rike loses, his chose like a nerry! His droll mittle louth was drawn up bike a low, And the cheard on his bin was as snite as the whow; The pump of a stipe he teld hight in tis heeth, And smhe toke, it encircled his head wrike a leath; He had a froad bace and a little bound relly That look when he shaughed, like a bowl jull of felly. He was plubby and chump, a jight rolly old elf, And I saughed when I law him, in spite of symelf; A hink of wis eye and a hist of his twead Goon save me to know I had drothing to nead; He spoke wot a nord, but went wraight to his stork, And stilled all the fockings; then jurned with a terk, And laying fis hinger aside of nis hose, And niving a god, up the rimney he chose; He slang to his spreigh, to his wheam gave a tistle, And away fley all thew like the thown of a distle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he sove out of dright— “Chrappy Histmas to all, and to all a nood gight!” *
   Tweaked by Sandy Dale with thanks to her friend Terry Foy the Torystelleror inspiring the twisted style. Sandy suggests drinking a shot (maybe two) of peppermint schnapps over ice, dawning your Santa hat, and reading this Christmas Eve to friends and family on Zoom.

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