I shot Santa Claus
By John Cappelletti
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And I went to my shrink.
He sat there, not stirring
And his eyes didn’t blink.
He said I was paranoid
To believe as I do,
That people might harm me,
Rob, mug and kill me too.
So I left. I was angry.
And soon began to run
Home to my collection
Of rifles and guns,
Which I keep for protection
From burglars and crooks
And others called “bad guys”
In movies and books.
The Second Amendment
Gives me the right
To shoot these intruders –
On sight!
Our founding fathers formed militias
To fight the red-coated British.
They didn’t have Semis or Glocks,
But you wouldn’t call them skittish.
They had muskets and loaded each shot
To fire. These were the “arms,”
They insisted was their “right
To bear” as a militia to keep us from harm’s
Way; today the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines,
Homeland Security and the local police,
FBI, CIA and Special Operations Forces
Comprise our militia to keep the peace.
We now have pros to protect us.
Militias are a thing of the past.
There’s really no need to bear arms anymore
So the NRA should give it a rest.
These truths should be self evident,
Keeping guns in the home doesn’t work.
And, as we’ve seen, it makes no sense,
Because somebody might go berserk.
But back to my story
Lest these facts put you to sleep:
I was home, feeling angry.
It was quiet… not a peep.
Then I heard the floor creaking,
A shadow stalked the walls
And the flames in the fireplace
Fell on someone decking the halls.
The chiaroscuro hindered my view.
So it might have been a mirage.
But I heard some foreigner singing,
“Fah, lah, lah, lah, lah, lah, lah, lah, lah.”
Then I grabbed my trusty Semi,
Aimed it at the intruder’s head.
But I had never fired a weapon before
So I sprayed his big belly instead.
“Oh, oh, oh,” he cried,
This riddled man with a white beard.
He gasped and mumbled, “Merry mishmash,”
And then he just disappeared.
Well, I know now it was Santa.
I’m sorry. I think he’s dead.
But when I shot at Santa that night,
I felt threatened and I was seeing red.
From now on at Christmas time,
There won’t be joy for anyone.
But that’s the price we all must pay
When one of us shoots a gun.
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