Cynical, could you tell me a bedtime story?

I actually wrote this for my little brother when I was back in the 7th grade. Yes, my mind has been quite sick for some time now. Needless to say, he didn't get much sleep that night, and I was blasted out by my mom, much like the time I convinced him that the Sandman would come and throw burning hot sand in his eyes if he was still awake after a certain hour, and since our dad worked nights, my brother would panic when he heard the door unlock in the middle of the night. Everybody should have a big sister like me. Ah, those were the days... But I digress. Merry Christmas everybody!

WARNING: ***Suckass Poetry Alert!***

Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Just two children were stirring,
But nary a mouse.

Their parents were gone,
A party far from here,
Eating and drinking,
With holiday cheer.

And these bad little children,
These horrible brats,
Were sneaking downstairs,
Their eyes glowing like cats'.

When they reached the living room,
They ran up to the tree,
Shaking up presents,
Screaming "This one's for me!"

When up on the roof,
There arose such a clatter,
The punks ran to the window,
To see what was the matter.

Then a noise from the chimney,
So amazingly loud,
Made the children jump,
And turn at the sound.

And there was an elf,
Just standing there,
With friendly brown eyes,
And bright red hair.

"Please children," he said,
"Could you please go to sleep?
Santa won't show,
If he hears a slight peep."

"No!" yelled the children,
"We won't go to bed!
There's two of us and one of you,
So try it and you're dead!"

"Please little children,
I'll ask you once more,
Go to your rooms,
And please close the door."

"Look, stupid thing!
You pitiful elf!
If you want us asleep,
Then do it yourself."

So the elf shrugged,
And with a sigh,
Put on his pointy shoes,
And kicked out their eyes.

As he pulled off their faces,
They continued to scream,
Oh the blood and the mangling,
What a horrible scene!

When the elf was all done,
The kids were deceased,
Then he went up the chimney,
Finally, there was peace.

The stockings were flung,
In the chimney with flair,
While the stench of dead bodies,
Was filling the air.

The moral: Bad little punks,
Who stay up that night,
To try to see Santa,
Shall never see another sight.

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