The ambassador of joy and goodwill finally becomes unhinged, a calamity wrought by this abomination: http://www.hatchimals.com/
This just in, it’s breaking news,
Santa’s snapped and on the loose!
He’s running for it in his sleigh
In desperate bid to get away.
He finally reached his breaking point
And North Pole tore up, joint from joint.
What set the jolly gifter off?
What caused him reputation doff?
Details now are trickling in
From those who witnessed Kringle’s din.
Had he grown tired of Mrs Claus
Bemoaning pangs of menopause?
Did elf drop cocoa in his lap
And burn him in his under flap?
Too many naughty girls and boys?
No! It was this year’s new toys!
He’d just came back from photo tour
In shopping malls, a de rigueur.
He checked in on his busy elves
To see their progress filling shelves.
According to the first reports
He turned beet red and breathed in snorts,
More angry than they’d even seen,
He seemed like crimson wolverine.
“What monstrous manner toys are these?
Who thought these things up, if you please?
Is this a chicken hatchery?
Explain this mystery to me.”
The elves who gave us this report
Say next they saw his face contort
Into a tight, demented grimace:
No longer was he saint, but menace.
The frightened elven manager
Whose job none else now would prefer
Approached in fear the raging Claus
And sheepishly explained the cause:
“Santa, toy dispenser royal,
We elves have done our best to toil,
But toys that we are expert in
The kids throw straight into the bin.
We don’t have time to works retool
Before the end of Season Yule.”
The crimson Kringle looked aghast,
Then answered with this angry blast:
“Dolls and cook sets, cars and trucks,
Little soldiers, bathtub ducks,
Long johns and new underwear;
Where have you put these items? Where?”
The elf hunched even shorter, terrified
Of this new side of Kringle, Santa Hyde.
“But surely, dear St. Nicholas,
Upon your lap, each lad and lass
Expressed to you their deep desire
To have a Hatch-a-Beast to sire.
Their letters, nearly every one,
Have asked for egg-shelled furry one.
We had no time to get it done
So ordered them from Amazon.”
The Kringle staggered, held his head;
They feared that he might fall down dead.
“Is this a merry yuletide prank?
Do you take me for Christmas crank?
Stop your japes and fetch the toys.
It’s not the time for prankish noise.”
The elf slunk low as he could go
And hoped it would not come to blows:
“Silver-bearded goodwill king,
It’s nothing but the truth I bring.”
And then it was that Pere Noel
Unwrapped a new un-holly’d hell.
He grabbed a giant candy cane,
And looked as though an elf to brain.
Each tiny worker shrieked and scurried,
Never had they looked so hurried.
But Santa channeled his aggression
Solely toward the egg obsession.
With single swipe he taught to fly
Entire shelf that sat nearby.
A mortal landing then befell
Each furry denizen of shell.
Then wielding cane like tire iron
He smashed each plastic shell in turn,
Dispatching with each crushing blow
Another unhatched creature faux.
Now it was that Mrs Claus
Came in to find out mayhem’s cause,
For sundry of their pygmy crew
Had told her Santa’d come unglued.
“Father Christmas, what a mess!
What put you in so great distress?
The elves have labored wonderfully
To make the goods for Christmas tree.”
He stood, still wielding cane; the scrambled
Shells lay all about. Kringle rambled
Something incoherently about
Eggs Benedict of Arnold, then out
He ran toward his magic sleigh
And whipped the team to make quick getaway.
If you should spy his sleigh tonight,
Do not engage; turn out the light.
For Santa Claus is on the run
For hatch-icide. My tale is done.