Santa Claus Exposed

I bring you words of warning
About a sainted man
Whose colourful adorning
Conceals a hidden plan.

Transform the name of SANTA,
Transposed by his elves,
And see old SATAN canter.
The CLAUS speak for themselves.

The robed buffoon’s a bluffer;
His hood hides horns, his boot
A hoof, his breeches cover
A tail and, they repute…

Those ruddy cheeks have basked by
Infernal flames and sparks.
His black goatee is masked by
The beard of Grandpa Marx.

His home lies in the circles
Where bears and reindeer dwell;
Deep under Iceland’s joekulls
Old Nick holds court in hell.

On Christmas Eve the Father
Of Lies yokes up his beasts.
He flogs them to a lather
And flies off to the feasts.

Lucifer’s car is loaded
With sacks of rats and toads
And drawn by serpents goaded
Along the airy roads.

About him, demons beckon
Out of the storm-swept sky.
On earth, late travellers reckon
The Wild Hunt’s hurtling by.

If in a house the Devil
Should guzzling grown-ups glimpse,
Unto their Christmas revel
He’ll send his horny imps.

The ‘saint’ fills children’s stockings
With wriggling toads and rats,
Transmutes them into mockings
Of dolls and cricket bats.

In bulging bags he’s hoarded
The souls of girls and boys,
But they are well rewarded
With electronic toys.

Behold the red fiend reeling –
They sound the midnight bell.
Before its final pealing
He must flee back to hell.

Of course I speak in banter,
A faithful atheist.
Bah! Satanas and Santa –
Thank God they don’t exist!

I wrote this humorous Christmas poem 23 years ago, but it has never had a wide airing. Please pronounce ‘transposed’ as 3 syllables.