'Twas the Supper Before Christmas

What happens when C.C.Moore's poem and The Santa Clause are parodied in the same poem?

'Twas the Supper Before Christmas when all through the house,
not a soul was still famished, not even the mouse.
The pans were all hung o'er the stove top right there,
but the turkey still strung cast out hunger and care.

The children were playing, with all that they ate.
Their peas and their carrots made projectiles so great.
As Mama made a towel her pretty big cap
she jumped in my chair, and huddled on my lap.

When out of the stove, there arose such a clatter.
I sprang and dropped Mama to see what was the matter.
Away to the kitchen, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the oven, extinguished the stash.

The burnt on the breast of the new-fallen bird
Gave the lustre of foam, made me cry, "Oh. My. Word."
When what to my bumfuzzled eyes should appear,
But Tim Allen in red with an extinguisher near.

"That's why you should have fire-retardant so quick
in case of a house guest by the name of Saint Nick."
More rapid than eagles his comedy lines they came
as flubber or blubber filled him up all the same.

"The turkey's a mess, but nobody is burnt.
'Twas simply a test, hope that something was learnt."
To the top of the stove! To the top of the wall!
Now, find away! Find away your supper to call!

As dry leaves now strewed on the floor for much slippage.
Your brain is not all, that's in danger of trippage.
So all through the kitchen they fluttered to float,
'til Mama showed up. She's the cook, that's the G.O.A.T.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard to my left
the prancing and pawing of Ma so bereft.
I drew back my head, wanting more than a nub,
while bracing for torrents of words at my flub.

Her face all demure, from her head to her foot,
She was tarnished, and blackened from ashes and soot.
A bundle of turkey she now flung in the trash,
And she looked like a Mommy in anxiety's crash.

Her eyebrows, quite wrinkled. Her dimples, now furry.
Her cheeks were like hard coals, her nose filled with slurry.
Her droll little mouth was drawn up in a pucker.
She was stroking her chin, pounding fist at you, Sucker.

Now, turning to Tim with his snickering teeth,
'mid the smoke-filled up room, that was more than a wreath,
demanded she did how exceedingly silly
to think he was here, and the same time in Philly.

He was chubby and plump with a face full of hair,
and we laughed when we saw him, though we tried not to stare.
A wink of his eye, and a grunt from his chest
gave peace to my heart 'twas a television jest.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to the table
to fill all the plates with great food as he was able.
Then, laying his finger on hot buttered toast,
he gave a sweet nod at how tasteful the roast.

He sprang out the door as he tossed us a brisket.
"Have some butter on hand. Spread it wide on your biscuit!"
Then I heard him exclaim as he loud slammed the door,
"MAKE A SUPPER THAT'S GREAT, LIKE YOU TRIED TO BEFORE!"

line count: 56
word count: 553

by Jay O’Toole
on December 1st, 2025