The Beast of Xmas Eve

The body was stuffed up the chimney with care
In the hopes that the constable wouldn’t look there
He’d never believe, they don’t understand
I implored them to help, they would not lend a hand

On a cold Christmas eve I stepped out in the snow
Gun held at the ready, pondering where to go
Lantern in my hand, straw stuffed in my clothes
To seek out the creature that everyone knows

One eve every year, it is known to stalk
Those who knew not better and went for a walk
Or poor carolers out spreading their cheer
A sad drunken worker, coin spent on cheap beer

It would always start with the sound of a howl
A bellow, a scream, or if close a growl
Next morning would come and a soul would be missing
Whispers of monsters about would be hissing

I took up the cause after shots of Dutch courage
I donned my thick woolens, a gut full of porridge
Set forth in the snow, to search for the beast
Afor he could ‘pon some poor child make a feast

And it wasn’t long, close to midnight’s bell toll
Till I found me strange marks in the snow (and a hole)
Froze solid I saw what was left of Ma Jones
Her soft bits chewed out, flesh been gnawed to the bones

A noise to my left, I dropped to one knee
And turned round the lantern, squinting hard so to see
The mist curled about and the moon shone above
The only sound creaking, my cold leather glove

And then with a crash, branches flew, ice and snow
A hair covered creature from ‘twixt planted row
Darted toward me, I stepped back and aimed
Pulled both triggers at once the beast I thus maimed

Flew at me again with screams half man and half other
We crashed in a heap upon the Jones mother
It gurgled and snarled, then pleaded, a cry
With a single reload the beast then did die

And as the moon slid oily past in the night
I saw before me the source of the fright
That assailed the whole region but once a long year
Twas none but the Parson, face frozen in fear

I hauled his corpse home, stuffed it in the chimney
To protect those who worshiped with him with anonymity
And tossed Ma Jones through the ice of the river
In hopes that downstream the current would deliver

And I sit in my study, just cleaning my gun
And cursing the knocking, I know what’s begun
And I speak to the constable, ‘bout gunshot, a fight
And he leaves to see others, then I tend to the bite.