A survivalist Christmas

Gifts to ensure you live to see the New Year — and many more!
By DEIRDRE FULTON  |  December 5, 2012

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, except for my spouse.
His bug-out bag hung by the chimney with care,
In fear that the End Times soon would be there.

The canned goods were nestled all snug down below
(one never knows when you'll have to lie low).
With solar-fueled heat, and first aid, and a map,
We felt quite secure settling in for a nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to zombies — oh no!
Yes, what to my wondering eyes had appeared?
A troupe of the undead, a sight much afeared.

With a little old leader, so dead-eyed and dumb,
I knew in a moment the End Times had come.
More hungry than tigers the monsters they stared;
I quickly reviewed everything we'd prepared.

"We're ready for anything," my lover had said,
"We've got ammo and matches and stuff to make bread.
"We've got paracord, axes, and batteries too,
"All of these items will help us get through."

Our cordwood was stacked and our gas cans were filled,
As was the freezer with meat that we'd killed.
I knew how to can and how to preserve;
We even had freeze-dried hors d'oeuvres.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of some little hooves.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of tools he had flung on his back,
And he looked like Bear Grylls, just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
"I'm here," he said suavely, "to save you, you know."


The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
As he pulled out a knife stuck into a sheath.
"You'll need this," he said, handing it over.
"And don't you think you should have a Land Rover?"

He really was right: O'er the landscape of Maine,
Four-wheel drive would help in the rugged terrain.
Who was this old man, a survivalist master?
With all tools on hand to avert any disaster?

He smiled at me then turned back to his work,
And filled all the stockings, with seeds and dry jerk.
Laying a finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, gave the zombies the finger,
And they sure didn't look like they wanted to linger.
Then I heard him exclaim, "I'm the best Santa alive!
"With these Christmas gifts, you're sure to survive!"

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