[Fiction/poetry] A Christmas Story

Upon a hill, in Christmasville, there lived a man named Bigby.
He wasn’t rich, nor was he wise, nor fat, nor tall, nor kind;
But neither was he mean or spiteful –
At least not by design!
“Bigby is as Bigby does” his motto and his creed,
And Bigby didn’t care for people –
Not one bit, indeed.

Now, the citizens of that fair town were not, as you might guess,
Paragons of Christmas cheer, of giving and largesse.
No, they were just your average folk, right earthy and mundane,
Yet even they were quite surprised by Bigby.
In the house, upon the hill – haunted, so they say –
Lived the vaunted vampire! Nosferatu true!
For Bigby is as Bigby does:
By day he rarely moved.

Oh, he was not a bloodsucker, a spook or ghost or wight;
He merely had a twinging knee that bugged him in the night.
So he had a cunning plan: “I’ll sleep during the day!
Then my knee won’t bother me at night! Callooh! Callay!”
But clever as old Bigby was, his knee did ache and crack
Like a coffin lid beneath which hid a
Vampire! Or, a bat.
But Bigby is as Bigby does,
And that, to him, was that.

The children of fair Christmasville were wily, coy and sly;
They’d rile up poor Bigby with tricks and jokes – but why?
Why, you ask, would children
Torment a recluse? Surely he’s done little
To merit this abuse. Why, Bigby is a citizen!
Like you, or me, or Joe – he pays his taxes! Mows his lawn!
Those scamps have no excuse!
True, Bigby is as Bigby does,
But leave him well alone!

Yet woe betide those parents who would let their children near
Old Bigby in his haunted house, gaunt of face
And cheer.
A vampire he may not be, but a curmudgeon he remains!
His temper like the summer moon – hollow, on the wane.
You’ll get short shrift from Bigby, when his nose is in a book:
Dracula, by Stoker, a novel tried and true.
For Bigby is as Bigby does:
Tradition sticks like glue.

Upon a hill, in Christmasville, lived a man alone.
A humbug, if that is the phrase,
Who cared for nought but one.
But did he learn his lesson? Did he learn to care, to love?
Did Bigby find, deep in his heart, a calling from above?
I hate to disappoint you, dear reader, dearest guest;
But I confess that in short – no, the answer isn’t yes.
Bigby went upon his way, lesson never learned.

Morals are like molars:
Flat, and hard, and bare.
And Bigby is as Bigby does,
And Bigby didn’t care.

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