Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Tag: Santa Claus

Lard-Ass Lap Dance

Lard-Ass Lap Dance

Against wild right-wing crazies, balanced Shea
Defends Netflix – plus child pornography.
Puritans in the loony GOP
Will bow to his supremacy today.
Cuties of course is more than A-okay:
It’s necessary viewing finally,
Expanding our horizons. Hey, let’s be
More tolerant of pre-pubescent play!
Clearly Shea is a ginger Santa Claus—
A cheery Father Christmas kind of chap
In Pseudo-Chestertonia. His laws
Are not lean laws. His mind evades the trap
Of moralistic judgment. Why? Because
He dreams of cuties squirming in his lap.

–Tom Riley

 

Netflix Faces Boycott After 'Cuties' Scene Goes Viral

(Planned Parenthood ally Mark Shea sticks up for Cuties.)

Jolly Old Elf

Jolly Old Elf

 

Mark P. Shea is a panicky fairy.
Though he’s Santa Claus fat, he ain’t merry.
COVID threat makes him piss
Pants too monstrous to miss.
Of his state of mind, people, be wary.

 

–Tom Riley

 

 

True Friends

True Friends

 
Adam Schiff’s one of Mark Shea’s favorite guys
Nowadays. Once a month at least, the two
Meet to exchange their latest klutzy lies
And give each other high fives right on cue.
Trump hatred is the leftist super glue
That binds the buddies fast and makes them one.
Also, they share the absence of a clue—
And a sick, adolescent sense of fun.
If friends have things in common, there’s a ton
To join these lads in friendship close and warm.
Both of them want to take away your gun.
Both of them love to view a boyish form.
Their central mission they do not forget.
Queer for each other? Ain’t no photos yet.

 
–Tom Riley

 

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(In reality, Adam Schiff couldn’t tell Planned Parenthood ally Mark Shea from a giant inflatable Santa Claus.  Shea is, however, a drooling Schiff fanboy.)

Indefensible

Indefensible

 

Toys delivered — but who can defend
Such deliveries? Soft hearts contend
And maintain, at the least,
Santa’s worse than a beast.
This enslavement of reindeer must end!

 

—Tom Riley

Treat for Santa

A Treat for Santa

 

Santa may crash tonight. Certainly
He’ll have trouble. Oh, what sights he’ll see
As he crosses the sky!
Who’s responsible? I—
For those cookies contained LSD.

 

—Tom Riley

Plan to Capture Santa Claus

The Plan to Capture Santa Claus

 

 

His plan to capture Santa Claus was stark
In its unparalleled simplicity.
Next to his own house grew a lofty tree
Whose boughs could bear him up. There, in the dark,
He would wait, sniper rifle at the ready,
For the arrival of the laden sleigh.
Take the lead reindeer out – and they’d all stay,
The visitants of Christmas Eve, unsteady.
He should have guessed, of course, that Santa had
A thorough network of insightful spies.
He should have seen the scorn in merry eyes.
Too late! Too late! Words simple, stark, and sad.
Off then to Santa’s gulag, ill-intentioned.
Funny. The Infant Christ was never mentioned.

 

 

–Tom Riley

Worse than Morgoth

Worse than Morgoth

 

 

Tolkien’s Elves are diminished, their soul
Having paid time’s impossible toll
Down through age after age.
Some have now reached the stage
Where they labor at Santa’s North Pole.

 

 

–Tom Riley

Sniper Rifle

Sniper Rifle

 

 

Santa’s reindeer look
so different in the sites
of my .303.

 

 

–Tom Riley

Gruss vom Krampus

Gruss vom Krampus

 

 

(for Rhiannon Smedley)

 

 

I sent you, Rhi, a Krampus in the mail–
a little figure causing Christmas dread
for children who exceed their bounds or fail
in duty. Black where Santa Claus is red,
and elsewhere too, the Krampus moves ahead
of kindly and indulgent Old St. Nick.
Into his realm of anguish brats are sped.
Good children grin and think he’s pretty slick.
The message I intended: was it sick–
a threat to picture-perfect Smedley kids?
In dark, unwholesome boxes did I stick
those paragons — and then nail shut the lids?
Nay! Here is what I meant and what I mean:
on Christmas, the best gift is… Halloween!

 

 

–Tom Riley

Krampusnacht

Krampusnacht

 

 

Tonight’s the night he comes to get you, lad–
the Krampus, with his long and bright-red tongue.
You’ve been, as you’ll acknowledge now, quite bad.
Your deeds of evil have been widely sung.
The ladder you’ve descended rung by rung
was not a ladder to a secret lair
where scorpions would leave your ass unstung
and lamiae would coo and stroke your hair.
You’ve made your way to Hell, you brat! Repair
your fortunes? At this late date, not a chance!
For frightened pleas the Krampus doesn’t care.
He has you by your short and sassy pants.
In the brief laugh you heard, black serpents hissed.
He’s urinating on your Christmas list.

 

 

–Tom Riley