What happened on Boxing Day

'Twas the night after Christmas and, utterly shagged,
sat Santa and Fairy enjoying a fag.
The table was set, the hour was late,
the candles were lit, Santa heartily ate.
the brats had been dealt with, "That's it for the year,"
sarcastic raised glasses: "fuck this Christmas cheer."

But two glasses clinked. Two glasses. Not three.
"Where the bloody Hell's Rudolph," said he testily.
"Not seen him since morning" she casually lied,
smoothed out her tutu, and smiled, as he tried
to put on an unconcerned air of disdain,
his spirits to lift and indifference to feign.

'Twixt pudding and cognac as Santa lit up
"Delicious, my darling, that was a fine sup,"
said he to the winged bint, hand on her knee,
"So glad you liked it," she gleamed brittley,
twiddled her wand and was inwardly smug:
the dirty old git could be oh! such a mug!

The meal was finished, the elves cleared the plates,
And Santa complained of his pains and his aches:
"I'm getting to old for this HO HO HO shite,
and to shift all the gear in one bloody night?
Which bloody god was it this bloody stunt started?"
"Buggered if I know." said fairy, who smarted
from sitting on tree tops with thin underwear
that was no protection 'gainst pine needles there.
And scrab'ling down chimneys - yes she did that too,
or if there weren't any she came up the loo,
with magic and curses that might keep her dry
but stuff she went through'd make an honest girl cry.

She glared at him darkly when he looked away,
at his putrid pink belly - long gone was the day
when his flatulent form could slide down the flue -
now sweaty and smutty. And shockingly few
were resemblances now to the jolly plump chap
depicted on cards. He was crass. He was crap.
She twinkled. She sparkled. And brightly she lit
the festival season while this stupid git
was lauded and praised and held high in the eyes
of little scrubbed faces whose yesterday's cries
of endearing delight as the wrappings they tore
had echoed 'cross continents. And, what was more,
he no longer singled the good from the bad.
She was tired. She was used. She was pissed. She was mad.

So she looked on the scene now with some satisfaction
as the bloated old fool, now disturbed to distraction,
stroked overfed belly, a boxing day feast;
his pallor was nervous, his forehead was creased
in furrows of worry and effort of thought
as his far brighter partner dear Rudolf he sought.

A new day was dawning! Bright future! What joy!
She inwardly twinkled; was outwardly coy.
The world would be sparkly, glittery, bright.
And everyone'd soon see she'd always been right.
And no one would argue, at Christmas no tear,
she'd abide no dissenters, no cross word she'd hear.
At gunpoint (if need be) they'd play happily,
And no one'd stick fairies on no fucking tree.

A murmurous belching her reverie shook.
"Oh Rudolph! Dear Rudolph! Oh please help me look!"
Troubled eyes sought for Rudolph, the brains of the pair.
Said Santa (approaching the edge of despair),
"He should have been here. We should have been three."
"But he was," said a voice tinged with murderous glee:
"Oh Rudolph, dear Rudolph was your second course:
on a platter of silver, with a dash of mint sauce!"

His jaw dropped. His face paled. His eyes boggled out.
"And this is the last of that brown hairy lout!"
Triumphant she brandished one last serving dish
and with voice dripping malice said "what's your last wish?"
"No! No! It's not true!" Santa, quavering, wailed.
But his plumpy complexion (which had at first paled ),
was rapidly shading a nauseous green
as he, terrified, stared at the dish cover's gleam.

With the calmness and grace of one truly crazed,
like an angelic waitress the dish lid she raised.
Beneath the fine silver lay Rudolph's fine heart
and terrified Santa drew back with a start.

The table top jolted, a wine glass fell off,
while smoothly she lifted a Kalashnikov.
Up his spine ran a chill and, with terrible leer
her face grinned before him: "There'll be changes round here!"

Then she shot him. Just shot him. Without more ado:
for she'd seen all those movies with arch villains who
believe they're immortal through pride and conceit
and, leaving the heroes to hang by their feet
o'er pools full of sharks and piranhas and stuff
then exit the room, while through some crafty bluff
the heroes escape. Oh not her. No not she:
she just splattered his brains out, he died instantly.

The noise brought the elves in, the reindeer came too.
And brightly she welcomed them: "Do come in! Do!"
Then she let them all have it: the panic was utter
As she sprayed them with bullets and laughed like a nutter.

There was blood on the carpet and blood on the door.
There was goo on the ceiling and guts on the floor.
And no one escaped through the din and the haste.
And the pieces went flying all over the place.

And when it was over, the blood and dust settled,
said Fairy, at length, in a voice slightly nettled,
"Now I just want to get a few little points clear
and I know you all think I'm the airhead round here
and you just wouldn't listen, you gave me no choice
but now I'm in charge." And with strengthening voice
she told them how lovely the world would be now,
with presents all year and such sweet things and how
no one would ever be sad or be poor,
there'd be no more strife and there'd be no more war.
They'd always be happy and smiling, she trilled,
"and those who don't laugh : they'll be painlessly killed,"
but what did that matter? She asked so sincerely.
All those who weren't happy, well really, they clearly
should be tidied up and put out of the way.
Oh bright dawn! Oh new life! Oh wonderful day!

She glittered and sparkled and told them these things
(surveying the carnage while smoothing her wings).
Then she picked up her wand and she danced out the room
as blood dripped down curtains in the gathering gloom.

'Twas the night after Christmas, so silent the house,
except for the very small sounds of a mouse
who, just for a change from the sugar and spice
of mince pies and puddings and other things nice
munched steadily through Santa's startled eyeball,
while soft fairy footsteps slipped out through the hall