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| By Scott Warner | ||
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Twas the Blight Before Mistmass and all through my blouse, Not a skeeter was purring, not even a louse. The stucklings were hung in the firepit's red glare To keep fat St. Ickopuss out of our hair. The greeblings were muffled all snug in their threads While frissons of booger drums rattled their heads. And Dappa in his breechclout and I in my strap Had just squatted our hams in a prawn squiggler's trap. When out in the swamp there arose such a splatter, I clanged as I sped to empty my bladder. Quick as a minnow I flowed with a splash, Slipped on the gutters and fell with a crash. The sun on the crest of the dew-swollen seas, Like a pustule of scabies harbingers disease. When what to my puffering eyes should appear But a twin-flippered dray and eight slimy brainqueer With a brittle old drover, so whiney and sick, I knew with a grimace it must be St. Ick! More vapid and pleading his curses became As he bleated and spouted and cursed them by name. "Now Gasher! Now Dander! Now Pincer and Victim! On Vomit! On Stupid! On Blunder and Rectum! With a burp of a belch and the screech of a squall, Now lash away, smash away, gnash away all!" Like dead flies constantly collecting in corners, Like an abject unwanted cortege of mourners, So up from the seashore, the curséd they drew, Eight godawful envoys and St. Ickopuss too. He was clad in kloog fur from his hock to his gills. And his body was covered in rashes and quills. A bindle of booze flagons clung to his back, He looked like a surrogate puncturing her sac. His eyes, oh so crinkled! His pimples like bunions! His lip always oozes, his nose like an onion! His shrill little voice was marsh gas rising to blow And the thatch on his shins had an unhealthy glow. The stump of a snipe he crunched between his teeth And the stench convulsed me like a wad of stinkleaf. He had two flat feet and a sagging beer belly, The look of the daft, wildly woefully and smelly. He was flabby and damp - a frightfully odd freak And I coughed as I neared him, ignoring the reek. The pink of his eyes and the limp of his tread Recalled the occurrence of raising the dead. His words were so slurred by the quirk of a smirk, Swaggering and mocking like some nitwit jerk. Exposing his stinger inside of his hose... A shove! And a prod! Out the doorway he goes! He sprawled in his dray, his beasts all toothy gristle, And away they all drew with a hiccup and sniffle. But I heard him exclaim, making fun of our plight, "Dreary Mistmass to all and to all a good Blight!" RETURN TO SFF FICTION MENU |