by Paulie Clawson ’13
It was January Thirteenth, I was home sick with the flu
When some noises and ash fell from the chimney flue
Someone on the roof was coming a-knocking
Was it Santa Claus? No, it was the man who confuses stockings with stalking.
He winked and smiled at me. Would he give me a present?
But no red coat, white beard, or tasseled hat were present
And why was he crouching on the mantelpiece, never talking?
Oh, I remember. It’s because he’s the man who confuses stockings with stalking.
“I’ve been traveling across the world ever since Christmas dawn
Following people from Peru to Chad to Taiwan.
Because every December, people keep talking about stalking,”
Said the man who bizarrely confuses invasions of personal privacy with Christmas stockings.
“Now, I must slay my reindeer and return to North Poland.
On Dasher! On Dancey-Prancer! On Vixen! On Roland!
On Comet! On Cupid! On Adolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and even Stephen Hawking!
Now fly away — we have to do so much more Christmas stalking!”
Said a crazy man I probably shouldn’t have let into my house,