The Pickled Poet's silly Santa story

Father Christmas lived on an isthmus
up by the Arctic sea.
On Christmas day he'd load up his sleigh
with presents for you and for me.
In one of his red suits and his shiny black boots
into his sleigh he'd jump.
He'd ride through the sky watching houses pass by
till he'd land on your roof with a thump.
Till one night in the chimney he wailed "by criminy, I think I've got myself stuck!"
"I'm a goner" he cried, and then he died
what a rotten piece of luck.
So there will no longer be any presents for me
​​​​in my stocking on Christmas day.
At least the smell from the fire as his bones become drier
is slowly fading away.