The (Bad) Elf on the Shelf

I am dressed in all green from my head to by toes,

except for what's red, my eyes and my nose.

Santa sent me to sit on your shelf,

and not cause he thought it was good for my health.

I am here for one reason and that is to spy

on you and your habits while I get high.

You probably wonder how I come up with trickses,

it's to occupy time in between all my fixes.

And with all my habits I am just where he wants me.

Saint Nick and his dope, he constantly taunts me.

And so it is that on the first of November,

I come to your home to watch and remember.

I will sit here all quiet, I'm a toy you will think.

I sit and I sit and I never do blink.

But all of your actions and all of your deeds,

will go right to Santa through satellite feeds.

Like that time in the bedroom, your nose you did pick,

Santa saw that down to the last lick.

When you took from your brother his favorite car

there was a loss of another gold star.

Nothing alarming, just simple infractions.

On the nice list you were still gaining traction.

Yet for me all these things this just were not enough,

I was waiting for fuck-ups, the really bad stuff.

There was that time I was sure would just suffice

to put you on naughty and take you off nice.

That time you and Susie locked all the doors,

and she showed you hers and you showed her yours?

St Nick saw that one too and twas he that insisted

posting to YouTube (which I thought was twisted).

Santa loved what you did, he was so entertained

to the point on the nice list you were maintained.

So I sat on the shelf and bided my time

still as a statue, silent as a mime.

I thought and I thought and I thought once again,

how could I screw you, my naïve little friend?

First I put down a few lines on your dresser,

with just a few snorts you'd be that much the lesser.

Instead when you saw them your fingers you flicked,

the lines blew away and I thought, “What a dick.”

I picked up your juice and I spiked it with gin,

you smelled something off, in the trash it went in.

The the bottom of your drawer, I filled that with porn,

no way you'd resist cause a boy you'd been born.

The moment you saw it you threw it all out,

and me, the bad elf on the shelf, had to pout.

Surely I knew there's a way to cause trouble,

a way I could burst your goddamn Christmas bubble.

So I slipped a crisp 20 out from your mom's purse,

took it to your room and then hoped for the worse.

Of course your mom found it, she's nosy like that,

she went to your closet and grabbed your own bat.

Here we go, this is it, now we are talking.

When Santa sees this, out of Nice you'll be walking.

On Christmas Day with the lights all a'blinking.

When mom's finally sober and dad's eyes are a'twinkling.

You'll rush to the fireplace and rip down your stocking,

cause you know what's inside will really be rocking.

But reach deep inside, you dumb little troll,

cause all you'll be finding is one lump of coal.

Times are so tough, even at the North Pole,

and to make all ends meet we have only one goal.

The level of naughty must reach 30 percent,

or else there's no way Santa can pay all the rent.

While Santa gave out all those toys by the millions,

he was racking up debt in the billions and trillions.

Though he loved to shout out, “On Donder, on Cupid.”

he did finally mutter, “It's the economy, stupid.”

The elves went on strike, and it only got worse.

Santa poured a neat bourbon to take care of his thirst.

And you know that reindeer whose nose is so red,

last week in a snowbank he was found to be dead.

The man who had done it was a sad little runt,

an elf who'd gone rogue when he decided to hunt.

With Rudolph deceased it was found to be time-a,

so Santa sold out to a consortium in China.

And that, my young friend, is where I finally come in.

My role here to play is is to encourage the sin.

I am here, don't you know, just to fill up one list.

I must find all the naughty as my bosses insist.

With elves out of work and no money for toys,

I'm an assassin for hire, here to kill Christmas joy.

I am Santa's one out in his odd little game,

Finding bad things with which you I can frame.

By reducing the lists of the kids who are nice,

By reducing the gifts that all come with a price.

Then Christmas for me and for you and for all,

Will go on for now, if at a slow crawl.

While it may seem right now that I'm bad for your health,

who's saving Christmas? The bad elf on the shelf.