Caverns & Creatures Night Before Christmas

T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the tavern,

folks gathered for a tale of creature and cavern.

Elves with their mead and dwarves with stonepiss

were assured of a story they'd not want to miss.


The bard tuned his fiddle, cleared the phlegm from his throat,

and prepared to recite the words that he wrote.

But something was wrong. My senses did tingle

at a sound from above. Were those hooves on my shingles?


His show interrupted, the bard pouted grimly

at someone -- or thing -- climbing out of the chimney!

Some nerve had this lacking-in-judgement intruder.

I leveled my crossbow at the fireplace to shoot her.


But it wasn't a her, as I'd wrongly suspected,

but a fat little dwarf. He was fully erected.

The patrons all angrily put down their tankards,

and held up their weapons at this fat bearded wanker.


"Ho ho!" said the dwarf, stepping out of the flames.

"Is that stonepiss I see? I'll have some of the same!"

"You are greatly outnumbered," I said with a sneer.

"Go back where you came from, You're not welcome here."


"Please," said the dwarf. "Lighten your faces.

Scabbard your swords and lower your maces.

Put down your clubs and your axes and slings.

Uncock your crossbows and relax your bowstrings.


You've no need of your hammers and daggers and flails.

I do not wish to see your cats-o'-nine-tails.

I am peaceful and kind. Do not fear an attack.

For I come bearing gifts. Behold my large sack!"


I replied, "Your sack we've already beholden.

The come that you'd gift us, we'd rather you hold in."

"I've resistance to fire and things that are hot.

My clothes, as you may have deducted, do not."


He reached in the fire and pulled out a bag.

One by one to the patrons, he handed out swag.

He gave away scimitars, tridents, and glaives,

quivers of arrows and hickory staves.


He gave us handaxes, morningstars, spears!

He armed us with bastard swords, scythes, and rapiers!

When the giving was done, to the teeth we were armed.

All in good spirits except for the bard.


He looked at the dwarf with his eyes full of sorrow.

"You've put on a show I can't possibly follow.

You gave them all weapons for which none of them lacked.

Have you nothing for me in your magical sack?"


The dwarf looked at the bard with a pleasant demeanor.

His old eyes were soft, much unlike his old wiener.

"You play and you sing. You fight very little.

For you, my dear bard, a shiny new fiddle."


With a wink of his eye and a tug of his beard,

he farted and, in the flames, disappeared.

So I ran out the door. Bitter cold chilled my skin.

Twelve goddamn deer stood on top of my inn.


I shouted, though tried to not sound too aggressive,

"For such a small sleigh, twelve deer seems excessive."

He gave me the finger as he took to the sky.

"What the fuck do you know about deer that can fly?"


Merry Christmas.



And the holiday-themed poetry doesn't stop there. Be sure to read How the Trump Duped Christians!

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