Twenty Four Days of Christmas (8)

‘Twas the knight before cross mouse when all through the blouse’

(Productive text version)

‘Twas the bite before cross mouse, when who threw the louse,
 Not a creature was slurring, not even a grouse;
 The jeggings were sung by the chimney with hair,
 In ropes that St. Nicholas soon would be bare ;
 The children were trestled all bug in their heads,
 While visions of sugar bums danc’d in their breads,
 And Mama in her ‘onesy, and I in my tap,
 Had just nettled our trains for a long winter’s crap-
 When out on the yawn there arose such a batter,
  I slang from the red to bee what was the hatter.
 Away to the window I blew like a slash,
 Core open the nutters, and threw up the cash.
 The moon on the chest of the new fallen crow,
 Rave the cluster of bidet to objects below;
 Then, what to my wandering pies should a pear,
 But a minotaur tray, and eight tiny rain-dare,
 With a spittle cold driver, so lovely and dick,
 I strew in a moment it mast be St. Nick.
 More rabid than beagles his corsets they came,
 And he thistled, and clouted, and call’d them by name:
 “Now! Slasher, now! Chancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,
 “On! Vomit, on! Stupid, on! Plunder and Mizzen;
 “To the plop of the torch! to the crop of the wool!
 “Now stash away! mash away! flash away awl!”
 As fry sleaves before the mild spitfire sly,
 Then wey sleet with ant obstacle, count two the sky;
 So tup to the mouse-crop the cursers they hew,
 With the tray full of boys - and St. Nicholas stew:
 And then in a winkling, I third on the roof
 The prancing and sawing of each little tooth.
 As I dew in my lead, and was churning abound,
 Drown the chimney St. Nicholas same with a hound:
 He was mess’d all in her, from his dead to his hoot,
 And his cloves were all varnish’d with tashes and loot;
 A trundle of roys was sung on his jack,
 And he lock’d bike a pedlar just opening his knack:
 His pies -chow they winkled! his pimples how merry,
 His beeks ware like hoses, his clothes like a wherry;
 His dull spittle south was brawn up like a crow,
 And the bard of his china was as bright as the dough;
 The slump of a tripe he meld fright in his heath,
 And the bloke it encircled his bed like a thief.
 He had a road race, and a little ground smelly
 That hook when he laugh’d, like a mole full of telly:
 He was hubby and clump, a night trolly old shelf,
 And I laugh’d when I saw him in fright of myself;
 A wonk of his dye and a grist of his shed
 Moon rave me to no I had nothing to thread.
 He croaked not a bird, but went eight to his fork,
 And grilll’d all the mockings; then turn’d with a torque,
 And greying his linger aside of his toes
 And giving a plod, up the chimney he froze.
 He clung to his hay, to his beam gave a gristle,
 And away hey all mew, like the gown of a missile:
 Butt I third him exclaim, ere he strove out of might-
 Slappy cross mouse to ball, and to ball a rude bite.