The night of the cookie
only one creature was stirring, and it wasn’t a mouse.
For there in the night, away from his bed,
snuck a little boy one, looking to be fed.
His stocking was hung by the chimney with care,
but this little boy sought a tastier fare.
He grasped and he stumbled, ’til the table he did reach,
and what he found there excelled a Thanksgiving feast.
Piled on the surface, like presents ’round a tree,
were cookies big and small, coated red and green.
Away to the fridge, he flew like a flash,
he grabbed the white jug, and pulled down a milk glass.
His parents were nestled all snug in their bed,
but visions of gingerbreads danced in the boy’s head.
With a leap and a bound, he rushed back to the goodies,
for there was no one to stop him from eating the cookies.
He munched and he gobbled the treats one and all,
he even ate Santa’s, not a single did he let fall.
With a crack and a crumble, he broke the last one,
and decided he’d had enough, he was now all done.
He had a broad face, and a warm, round belly,
that shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
The little boy smiled to himself for he knew,
that ’morrow mom must create her cookies anew.
He crawled back to bed, ’cause he couldn’t walk,
he ate too many cookies, and let out a squawk.
And then in a twinkling, the boy heard a clatter,
mom and dad had awoke to see what was the matter.
They looked in the den, and saw crumbs all around,
they ran to the boy’s room, and gasped at what they found.
The boy’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the crumbs on his chin were as white as the snow.
The boy had returned to his room like a fox,
but made it not to his bed, but instead to a box.
The cookies weighed him down, and his parents knew,
that tomorrow he’d be sick, and it wouldn’t be the flu.
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