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>T’was one Christmas eve, the holiest night
>and suddenly “Crap!”, a boy said in fright:
>a loud crash on the roof, muffed yells overhead
>had made sleepy Ferguson jump up in his bed.
>“What’s going on? Who’s there?! Are burglars in here?!”
>exclaimed the poor teen, while shaking in fear.
>He peeked out o’ the window: “Wait a sec, is it snowing?!”
>The boy’s shock was receding, his curiosity growing;
>after hearing some noises in the old living room
>there the boy ventured forth — wielding only a broom.
>At first, Ferg saw nothing that looked out of place;
>but since when, did his home also include a FIREPLACE?!
>He then saw something weird, to the highest degree,
>as someone was standing by the tall Christmas tree.
>Astounding, incredible, it gave Ferguson pause:
>With a sack full of presents, there was none but St Claus!
>After droppin’ his broom, Ferg stood fast agape:
>because Santa was real — and in far better shape.
>“Uh-oh!” muttered St Nick, while looking distraught,
>“We’ve woken up Ferg, and now we got caught!”
>“Don’t fret it, my homie” did somebody respond:
>t’was one pretty Ms Claus — quite young, thin and blond;
>then, as soon as the girl signaled with a whistle,
>Ferg’s buttock was struck by a blowgun’s small missile.
>“Ouch!” he lamented, more dazzled than hurt,
>’fore three other darts had him fall down inert.
>Star smiled, like it had been the funniest of times.
(but now ol’ Folly-Cola’s totes DONE with the rhymes!)
>Under her breath, Star cheered:
>‘Nice shots, guys!’
>She then tippy-toed up to the couple of silent snipers, and asked them:
>‘Sooo… Would you two now carry Ferguson back to his room, please?’
>While putting away their tiny blowguns, the couple of green-dressed elves took a mere glance at the massive body of Ferguson, before categorically replying:
>‘…Oh, heck NO!!!’
