Day Three Poem by William Coyne

'Twas day three after the solemn Christian
holiday, when gifts given with happy
hearts and good will are found under green trees,
gaily decorated with candles, candies,
silver trimmings, and all sorts of good things.

My mischievous little brother and I crept
into the parlor silent, for we had
a new guest to spy and torture with our
sly childish terrors and chitter-chatter,
so behind this old man we planned his doom,

when our tavern guest, who sat by the fire
nightly quiet to warm his aging bones,
rose from his chair, puffed on his pipe, and glared
at little brother and me, began to speak
with voice to shake the rafters and our souls,

'Arrr! This dark the Hurly-Burly comes
to sweep clean from this hard and frozen earth
young whippers having taken not their due!
And mind you, it takes more than a few!
And them's the lucky ones! For take hold,

them's that remains, and have not offered prayers
of thanks to the high and mighty heavens,
shall long burn in the fiery pits below,
walk in searing flames before they go,
from this night on, 'TILL THEIR BODIES FEED WORMS! '

His writhing arms thrust upward as he roared,
his face darkening, twisting, a black mass
covered with nothing seeming human skin,
shot flames from his bulbous nose and mouth,
as his oily buckled shoes pounded on the floor.

We bolted from this devil's fearsome presence,
up the stairs to our room in chilling fright,
and kneeled to pray for our deliverance,
begged forgiveness for not giving thanks,
dived under the covers, and doused the light.