Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Each creature was reading. Yes, even the mouse.
In a nest made of cotton that used to line pills,
he read Mouseman Saves Christmas and shivered with thrills.
Miss Padpaws turned pages of Elf off A Shelf
And purred as she read it aloud to herself.
Bad Dog, on the hearth, was devouring a book.
He'd chewed up five chapters and turned them to gook.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
reading books, with the covers pulled over their heads.
Mamá in her headset heard Time and Forever.
I chortled o'er Hogfather. That Pratchett's so clever.
Not one of us heard jingle bells on the roof.
No prancing and pawing of each tiny hoof.
Santa slid down the chimney and only Bad Dog,
looked up and woofed softly at the man on the log.
"Good Bad Dog," said Santa, and opened his pack.
He pulled out a bushel of books from his sack.
Picture books, YA, some Midgrades for Simon,
Thrillers, romances and even Neil Gaiman.
Geronimo Stilton, he gave to the mouse.
A copy of Archie, he left for the louse
He patted Miss Padpaws and handed her Cats.
For Bad Dog, a cake book that tasted like Brats
He filled every stocking with poems and prose.
Then ate all the cookies; brushed crumbs from his clothes.
