A foul-mouthed take on the timeless original, dedicated to my wonderful knitty friends near and far.

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The Night Before Stitchmas
a foul-mouthed homage, by dunderknit

’Twas the night before Stitchmas and there on the chair
Sat a panicking knitter with no time to spare.

The stockings were hung by the sink, dripping wet.
She’d blocked them that morning and they hadn’t dried yet.

The kids had retreated to bedrooms at last,
With the threat of no presents and a Santa bypass.

The husband shirked nervously back in his seat;
Every click of her needles caused mounting retreat.

The gift in her lap was the tenth of the season:
“Twelve’s fine if I start in September,” she’d reasoned.

The room’s tension crackled along with the fire.
Even the cat had begun to perspire.

When out on the patio came such a great blow,
As to startle the knitter and stop her mid-row.

The husband leapt up to find the cause of the racket,
And knocked the Maltesers all out of their packet.

Outside all was still, but then on the roof
Came the clattering sound of runners and hoof.

The pair were alert as more silence descended
Til, with one crashing thump, their night was upended.

There in the hearth was a jolly Saint Nick
He’d arrived in a haze of ash, dust and brick.

A shriek from the husband and a loud “SHIT!“ from her,
Nick’s sudden appearance had caused quite a stir.

“Oh buggering bollocks! Oh goddamming piss it!
For fuck’s fucking sake, you bastarding dipshit!

Look what you’ve done, you son of a bitch!
You’ve just made me drop a twatting great stitch!!”

A long pause then a chuckle, though it sounded uneasy;
It wasn’t the mince pies that were making Nick queasy.

He glanced at the spot where the stockings should be
And with barely a pause, turned round to the tree.

His present delivery was surprisingly sprightly;
He’d sensed the mood and was wont to tread lightly.

His job almost done, he turned to the chair.
Twinkling eyes catching sight of the WIPs that lay there.

“How lovely,” he chuckled, admiring the hat.
“My nan crocheted things that looked just like that.“

He knew it was wrong once he’d said it, and squirmed,
And backed slowly away as her countenance turned

“What did you call it?” Her tone remained flat.
”Get out of this house, you fat, bearded twat!”

He sprang t’ward the chimney and grabbed at his nose,
Her insults swirled round him as upwards he rose.

His footsteps haphazard, he sprang to the sleigh.
The reindeer were primed to bolt up and away.

But they heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight
“Happy Stitchmas to all, and Jesus Christ, that bitch is crazy…“