Dedicated with love & wonderment to my dear friend, Andrew.)



On this night, this Christmas night,
I walk his saintly wake,
following ropes of chimney smoke
and stolen left to bake.

Tura lura lura lie,
I spied the bedside glow,
of Gordon Goss the bully boss
of school bus one-four-oh.

Now Master Claus said bully boss
had been a naughty sprite.
He bore no gifts nor fancy things
to leave for him tonight.

Await, I did within the mouth
of the ancient farmyard well,
while keeping patience occupied
with ditties spun in hell.

Wither, dither, chortle, sput.
My singing filled the hole
with vulgar tunes of hungry things
a-prowling for a soul.

The wind, it whipped and snapped the night,
his “Ho Ho Hoʻs” rejoiced.
I marked my time with brimstone rhymes
in a hellish, monstrous voice.

Tura, lura, lura lie,
I heard the deer alert.
My talons grasped the icy stone
encased in frozen dirt.

His sleigh had lifted him aloft
and well into the night.
So then tʻwas time I bore my fangs
to set the bully boss right.

In leaps and lopes I covered ground
and rose upon the roof.
And proudly, loudly sounded my coming
with every heavy hoof.

Down, down, down the chimney,
warmed with Clausʻs cloak,
I filled the dark with amber glow.
The air with sulfry smoke.

“Oh, Gordon Goss, you bully boss…
into your dreams I go.
To weave a nightmare full of things
rose up from down below.”

I heard the whimper. I heard the gasp.
The crying out to follow.
The terrorizing shadow things
that hunt for fear to swallow.

“Oh, Gordon Goss, you bully boss…
of school bus one-four-oh.
The bane of innocents and waifs
whoʻll wake soon, donʻt you know?”

“Tʻis the realm of Father Christmas,
the lord of peace and joy,
that granted me the warrant right
to claim you, wretched boy!”

So into his room I took to the bed,
to claim the childling prize.
In a flash and a gash I cut out his tongue
and tore out his tear-filled eyes.

“No crying nor lying the damage is done.
Your sins have bought you no grace.
Youʻre Gordon Goss, the bully boss.
Iʻve come now to collect your face!”

“My cave is adorned with faces
of children both naughty and wrong.
Each Christmas night I thrive on fright
and dance to the penitence song.”

The sobs were filled with crimson.
Eye sockets, bloody tears.
But precious now the legend grows
of Yuletideʻs greatest fears.

When autumn leaves are falling
and Winter winds offend.
Tʻis Nicholas the Saint you love
and cherish to the end.

But lest you harm or wrong the weak
or rise against the pure.
Tʻis Krampus who shall visit last
with death upon your door.

Click here for more on Krampus.


About bretticus

My name is Brett Thomas Botbyl. Iʻm a rogue, nomadic Scorpio madman theatre director with a love of cheese, dogs, zombies and telling the many stories woven from the threads of my fabulous life. You watch as I revise the world... View all posts by bretticus

One response to “Krampus

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