Teen Ink

   There was a little elf with a cast-iron

skillet sitting in my bed,

and whenever I tried to rouse myself,

he'd whack me on the head.

It'd raise a bump, a lump or two,

and I'd go back to sleep

(getting brained with a frying pan is

more effective than counting sheep).

He wrecked my alarm clock, stomped on it

so it would not ring,

and he shot our rooster and the other birds

so that they could not sing.

My dog he locked in the basement

so she couldn't wake me up.

I couldn't smell breakfast cooking

because he superglued my nostrils shut.

I was kept in bed, a prisoner,

subdued, unconscious and meek.

This is why, dearest principal,

I haven't been in school all week.