I blame it on the eggnog

I have a poem for you today. And before your roll your eyes and think this horror writer has gone all literary on you: it's a comedic tribute to Stephen King (written several years ago as an assignment for a group I belonged to), set to the rhythm of "T'was the Night Before Christmas." Enjoy!

'Twas the night before All Saints, and all through the house
Not a creature was slith’ring, not even a louse;

My library bookshelves were cobwebbed with care
In hopes that King’s novel soon would be there;

I crept up the stairs, my heart filled with dread,
Visions of zombies danced in my head;
I dived into bed, fixed the covers just right
To hide me from things that go bump in the night.

When outside the window arose such a clatter,
I peed in the bed and my teeth, they did chatter.
Away to the window I slunk in great fear,
I peeked through the curtains and froze like a deer.

The moon on the shroud of the cold bitter snow
Cast grisly shadows from the objects below,
When, what should appear to add to my woes,
But a coffin-shaped sleigh, and a murder of crows,

With a gruesome driver, so dreadful and fright’ning
I knew in a moment it must be the King.
More rapid than death his coursers they came,
And he chanted, and cursed, and invoked each by name;

"Now, Carrie! now, Thinner! now, Shining and It!
On, Cujo! on Creepshow! on, DeadZone and Mist!
From the depths of all fear! I’m the king of them all!
Now run away! run away! run away all!"

As crematorium smoke spirals into the sky,
Or the soul flees the body with a ‘whoosh’ and a sigh,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of books, and grim Stephen King too.

I broke out in cold sweat, on the roof I heard
The scrabble and cawing of each gruesome bird.
As I swallowed my fear, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Richard Bachman came with a frown.

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
His clothes mottled with feathers just as black as soot;
A bundle of books he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a grave robber op’ning his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled with mysterious light,
with dark circles underneath from writing all night.

The glasses, the dark hair, sprinkled with gray

Unmistakably him, I knew right away.

His Red Sox cap was all askew on his head,
He pointed to it: “The Babe’s curse at last dead.”
He cocked his head in deep deliberation

“There’s a story in that—a potential sensation!”

He smirked with black glee, a right gory old bard,
I shuddered at the sight and my heart pounded hard;
A wink of his eye and a spin of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had plenty to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He filled all the bookshelves; then shouted, “Hey jerk!
It’s not meant to be Shakespeare; just a really fun read,

A journey through darkness to leave you weak-kneed.”

With a wink he was gone and back to his team,
And away they all flew like a horrible dream.
I heard evil laughter as he flew out of sight,
Sometimes dead is better. Now you have a good-fright.