An Edgar Allen Poe-m for Christmas

Copyright© 2005 Russell Hoisington

(With deepest apologies to the author of the original.)

Once upon a midnight, dearie, while I sat with eyes so bleary,
Viewing many a strange and curious website of forbidden lore,
While I nodded, lightly napping, from the fireplace came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the damper door.
" 'Tis some rodent pest," I muttered, "tapping at my damper door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And my tired and flaccid member'd spent its last upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From the website joy, not sorrow, sorrow from the webcam whore.
For the raw and naked maiden whom the spammers name Lenore,
True name lost forevermore.

How her silken, soaking finger, rustling briskly on her zinger,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic longings never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some squirrel or rat entreating entrance at my damper door,
Some late rodent pest entreating entrance at my damper door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my sense did weaken; hesitated, then went seekin',
Through my dark subconconscous it went seekin' for the whore.
But again while I was napping, came again the gentle rapping,
Like a crowbar faintly tapping, tapping at my damper door,
That I scarce was sure I heard... Here opened wide the damper door!
Flames winked out; then nothing more.

Deep into the darkness seeking, long I sat there, almost leaking
Yellow stains into my undies as I'd sometimes done before;
Briefly silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
'Til the only words there spoken were the whispered sound, "Go lower."
Stricken was I, and in echo murmured I the words, "'Go lower?'
These are rodents, nothing more!"

From the fireplace came a huffing, as of someone gruffly puffing,
Soon thereaft I heard a grunting, somewhat louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something bigger than a rat is.
Armed I'm not save my Thesaurus, for this myst'ry to explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, for it cannot be my whore.
" 'Tis a rodent, nothing more."

Down into the ashes fell he, landing on his rotund belly,
Bouncing out and landing seated, looking saintly on my floor.
'Twas a bit fore he was ready; to his feet he rose, unsteady,
And in fury oh so petty, stomped across my once-clean floor.
"Snap!" went fingers, sending more soot from his suit to soil my floor.
Then he spat and stomped once more.

Thereupon, with pipestem reeking, Santa sent his fingers seeking,
Down his lower spinal column, giving comfort where 'twas sore.
Left- and rightward he was bending while sore muscles he was tending.
And he soon seemed to be sending warm relief straight to their core.
Friction then his pack released, and it came crashing to the floor.
Quoth the Santa, "Shit!"

Stunned I was! This roly-poly man was said to be so holy,
Yet, just like a hockey goalie, thru his lips he cussed and swore.
Then his pack he levitated as if grav'ty no more weighted
And I, rapt, anticipated what within for me it bore.
Santa reached inside and pulled out... Oh my God! It was my whore!
Quoth the Santa, "Not here, damn it! You're the next door pervert's."