Dear Santa, pray accept this urgent plea
And burn your police reports regarding me.
I write to clear my name of wicked lies,
That cast me as a fiend in festive guise!

I’ve never peeped at presents through their wrap,
Nor rigged the cracker for a louder snap.
I haven’t pinched a mince pie from your stash,
Nor watered down your sherry, splash by splash.

<!– #3 – > I’ve not re-gifted socks from years before,
Nor tracked in mud across your workshop floor.
I’ve never pushed ahead in greeting lines,
Nor pilfered Advent treats from cardboard shrines.

The star upon your tree stayed where it sat,
(Though now it does appear a trifle flat).
I haven’t hoarded all the toffee gold,
Nor fed sprouts to kittens out in the cold.

Now let us turn to graver accusations—
I’ve not spiked your milk with foul libations.
(Though last year you turned an unwholesome green—
The strangest Yuletide shade I’ve ever seen.)

I haven’t led the carolers astray
To brine them for a feast on Christmas Day.
I haven’t laced the reindeer feed with glass,
Or strewn their limbs across the frosty grass.

They claim I boil the beggar-children’s bones
To build a xylophone of gristly tones—
Pure slander! (Though I will admit, with no duress
The timbre is delightful, I confess.)

I’ve never stirred your cocoa thick with lead,
Or milked poor Rudolph’s nose until he bled.
I’d never net an elf (even for sport),
Or grind them into pâté (served with port).

The health inspector missing since last year?
Mere happenstance—he’ll be back, never fear.
And should my meat pie taste a trifle strange,
Well, recipes are sometimes ripe for change.

I never stitch my dolls from human skin,
(A fabric that is famously too thin).
Those muffled sounds beneath my cellar door?
Just carols—nothing you need to explore.

The postman who went missing with those lists?
He vanished in the fog that curls and twists.
If parcels tick beneath their silken bows,
They’re merely clocks—I signed for each of those.

I haven’t stuffed the goose with ground-up crow,
Or wired your chimney to explode below.
Nor sealed your elves in barrels as they sleep,
Nor gift-wrapped heads (the storage fees are cheap).

My motives, Santa, shine as pure as snow;
Ignore that trunk of limbs—it’s just for show.
The sole crime for which I must now atone
Is writing verse in such a ghastly tone!

So grant me gifts, my dear saint; spare me coal⁠—
I’m pure as any name upon your scroll.
The darkest deed I’d never stoop to do
Is write false letters claiming they are true.

For who would pen such grim confessions here,
Then call them lies, with a mien so sincere?
Most faithfully (in festive crimson ink),
Your humble servant, Lord Augustus Fink

P.S. Those are not screams you hear within the night;
Just winter winds that howl with wild delight.
And if you spy a twitching in my sack,
Best move along—and never dare look back.