To Santa

Santa, art thou dead?

Thy bleeding body has drenched thy dress

And made it red…

Oh Santa, why do I see morose on thy face?

Thy withered beard and sunken cheeks,

Hollow bones and haggard frame,

Steals my vision from love to hate!

The hanging pack on your back,

Carries Skulls and bones of mass,

Warning us of the happening strife

And the doom that impends us;

Pervading our race into a

Big Black Ball, with hues withering away

And darkness descends all…

Oh Santa, how cruel are we!

To run a dagger through your attire,

Ripping apart thy seraphic charm,

Maiming thy ethereal value,

Blighting thy blithe soul

And fettering thy perky mind…

Turning thou into a defunct puppet.

Santa thou are dead,

The red glow of thy blood stained dress

Marks the deeds of our race.

Thou dwell among the realm of evil,

Dark, dull and drab.

Thou deceased piece of earth,

No longer stands for celebration,

But only mourning and mourning and mourning….