UberMas 05 - King Wenceslas (695 hits)
Category: Quotes & Stories -> PoetryLabels: competitions
Rating: 2 on 28 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Orgasmatron (View user info) at 2005-12-16 00:12:52 EST
Part I
Once upon a time there lived a king named Wenceslas
Who sat upon a throne and ruled the land of Islingcross,
A good king, whence, a good king still - not first and not the last,
He brought his realm good fortune as his first year, crownéd, passed.
For all the good the kingdom held, a curse loomed o'er its head,
A twist of fate that struck each year and left a child dead;
Legend says that old King Cole, a bargain did he deal
With Satan, that old enemy, one night at Potter's Field:
Cole approached the devil, saw him red-draped, hat in hand,
And asked him to keep safe the country's people, wealth and land,
The old books say that Satan, he complied, with one condition,
And here is what the demon said, here now, his proposition -
"Cole the wise, the merciful, I will accept your deal.
But understand, the passing time make me yearn for a meal,
I will hold our bargain true, if you, each Christmas Eve,
Provide for me a child to eat, to rip and gut and cleave.
An innocent delivered will ensure another year
Of peace and plenty, prominence, of nothing else to fear,
But if one year you think it best to break the promise made
I'll take your royal lineage. Their souls - an even trade."
And so it passed, for years and years, from one king to the next,
The burden of the bloodline: keeping Satan's pact in check;
Each king, dying, passed the secret, loos'd the albatross,
Until one day the curse and duty fell to Wenceslas.
As his father passed he whispered softly to his son,
"God will not forgive me for the evil that I've done.
I am truly sorry, boy, for you, too, must decide
To sacrifice a child or to forfeit your own life."
Wenceslas, he listened as the dying king explained
The Christmas Eve tradition that Cole and the devil made,
"Go at midnight," said his father, "just you and the child,
Take you past the Watchman's Woods and o'er the river, wild.
There he'll come on horseback, swift as death upon the wind,
Speak you not a word to him, for he is not your friend,
Give the child quickly, tarry not, don't waste his time,
And look not in his evil eyes, my son, or you'll go blind."
The king passed with a final breath and Wenceslas, he raged,
As much for this, his father's death, as for the curse's cage,
Promptly crowned that evening, new King Wenceslas began
To plot and pray and find a way to break that Satan's plan.
Spring, it passed, and summer passed, and quicky ran the fall,
And soon, on winter's doorstep, Wenceslas he heard a call.
It came upon the bitter wind - a lungless, frigid taunt:
"Hail, king, the time draws near, and I have grown quite gaunt.
See to it you bring a child fatted as a calf
With bones I have to work to meet, and blood thick as a laugh,
I hate to wait, so don't be late, my dear, I'll see you soon."
And all at once it left the king alone beneath the moon.
Forced to trust his instincts, Wenceslas could not confide
In any true advisor, for the one he needed died
And passed: his father, for the king alone was privy
To the truth behind the reason Islingcross's wealth was envied.
Alone he went to church and knelt before a cross of wood,
And prayed to God to bring him peace and help him see this through,
"Lord above, I beg you, grant me strength and light the way
And help me see your plan in what's to come 'fore Christmas Day."
Days and hours and minutes went, but with them came the needs
Of all the realm's good citizens, so laid before their liege.
Busy with affairs of court the king thought of the many,
And how the ancient pact would assure them peace and plenty.
Staring at his scepter, though, the king thought of the one,
The boy or girl who had no say in how the deal was done;
'Should I spare the kingdom and condemn my soul to hell?
Or dare I make a stand and die, but break the devil's spell?'
This and more thought Wenceslas, until he had no time,
For late it was on Christmas Eve, and dusk was drawing nigh,
He kissed his wife and sang his son to sleep before he left,
A world of doubt and worry on his mind, the king, bereft
Of peace made way into the falling snow, set 'bout his way,
His crown exchanged for hooded robe, his dress for tunic, gray.
The path was lit before him by the faint glow of twilight,
The powder, soft below him, silenced footfalls in the night.
Wenceslas worked through the woods, 'cross brook and stream and vale
And came to that deep river, wild; distantly, a wail
Came a-whipping from afar, from hill beyond the water:
The cry of Satan screaming for his yearly son or daughter.
Quickly o'er the river's frozen face the king pressed on,
And ran through heavy snow to meet the demon's steed headon,
He felt the heavy clap of hooves crash 'long the frozen ground
Until the steed's hot breath blew on his face without a sound.
Underneath his hood the good King Wenceslas went white
And looked down at the ground to keep his eyes from Satan's sight,
"Where now is your payment, king?" the prince of Darkness asked,
"I hope for your sake and your son's this night is not your last."
Satan paced around him, making circles in the snow,
Wenceslas raised not his head, and kept his gaze held low,
He watched the devil's footsteps as they traced their lazy route
And thought it strange instead of hooves the demon wore black boots.
"Demon, take this offering - I give my life tonight,
For I, a son of Adam, am a child in God's sight;
Take me now and do your worst, I beg you, don't delay,
For time is ticking on and soon it will be Christmas Day."
Satan sighed, then paused, attacked the king with speed and force
He tied him tight to saddleback and leapt upon his horse,
But as the demon raced t'wards home, his bounty to receive
He didn't see the king withdraw a dagger from his sleeve.
Part II
With a start the king came to, and then he felt a kick
That knocked the wind from out his lungs and left him feeling sick,
"Wakey, wakey, dearest king," a voice spoke to his left
And groggy, Wenceslas awoke, and felt ropes on his flesh.
All around him, flame and fire, around him, orange and red,
And for a moment Wenceslas assumed that he was dead:
Cast into the flames of hell, to pay his family's debt
For sending children to their doom. He felt his pants grow wet,
An uncontrolled response of fear; his fingers sought the blade
But found no knife in wristsheath near, he found no steely aide,
He squirmed against the ropes and rocked, suspended in the air,
And snapped his head from side to side but found no figure there.
Laughter from above him now, now laughter from the right,
"Oh Wenceslas, you didn't think you'd kill me here tonight?
I know a thing or two of toys, and found your little dagger
I'm shocked you didn't bring a sword to swing with royal swagger."
With a snap the binds untied and Wenceslas fell down
A tangled mess of rope and robe, he lay upon the ground,
Wood creaked high above him and he heard the footsteps clack,
And slowly, trodding down the stairs, he saw the boots of black.
Readied for the worst the king he made his peace with Christ
And said a final prayer to saints to watch his son and wife,
He waited for those evil claws to rip his face to bits
And for the teeth to gnash and spill his lifeblood on their lips.
He knelt there, penitent and pure, his prayer in heart and soul
When all at once the walls, they shook and cracked and formed a hole,
From out the void there poured a light as bright as twenty suns
The snow spilled in, the lightning flashed and Satan, he did run.
Blinded, Wenceslas threw both hands up against his face
He felt the wind and storm around him, kneeling there in place,
"Peace, my son," a new voice said, "there is no time to pause,
So get you to your feet and help me catch that bastard Claus."
Wenceslas, dumbfounded, asked "I think, Lord, you mean Satan,
For he's the one that brought me here, whose curse I mean to straighten,"
Christ looked at the king and said, "I'm sorry, but you're wrong,
It's SANTA, king, not Satan who has plagued you for so long.
Long ago he roamed the earth, enslaved the human race,
To build the wares and tinker toys for Christmas in his place,
His name, lost in translation, wound up misspelled for all time,
But truly, he is Kringle! He will answer for his crimes!
I fought him once in Egypt back when I was just a youth
(For Claus, he had no Christmas 'til I graced this funky earth)
He'd taken, then, to buying Jews and putting them to work
I put a stop to that at once, my stars, he's such a jerk!
But I was just a boy, then, and my powers, unrefined,
I merely stopped him in his tracks and kicked his fat behind,
He ran off like a coward, and since then has turned to sleight
To hoodwink kings like you to bring him children in the night.
Peace, again, dear Wenceslas, for one more truth I'll tell,
These flaming, fiery walls are not the mouth of foulest hell,
This is but Santa's boiler room, behind these walls, his shed
And there you'll find the children, all, who you thought long since dead.
Here he's kept them, them and more, all brought from far and wide,
In countless other kingdoms has this Kringle bitch spread lies,
You'll find them - each and every one - chained to a workman's bench,
He doesn't EAT them, don't you see: he makes them use a wrench.
Save them, king, go free them now - my work, it must be done
Now tell me, what direction did you see his black boots run?"
Wenceslas raised both his hands and pointed to the south
And made to say a word or two, but couldn't work his mouth.
Jesus charged off, headlong, robe a-flapping, white and red
While Wenceslas ran up the stairs and into Santa's shed,
He saw before him children, grown-ups, working hard away
Building toys and wrapping them and filling Claus's sleigh.
Thankfully the would-be demon had a master key,
Found and thusly used that night to set the captives free,
Aboard the sleigh they climbed, the king he grabbed the reigns and whipped
He set the reindeer running and away the phaeton slipped.
Charging through the snow the king heard children scream and moan
And saw a flash of red and black and felt a fist hit home,
A weight crashed up against him, knocked him from the seat to snow,
Before him stood old Santa Claus, who said "Well ho ho ho."
Dressed in red from head to foot, Kris Kringle was a sight
Behind his curly facial hair he flashed sharp teeth of white,
Eyebrows, arched, severe, betrayed his rosy, chubby cheeks,
His outfit smelled of sweat and hate, was worn, unwashed, for weeks,
Two big hands in gloves of black reached back and drew a hammer,
Bloodstained, heavy, granite-born, it caused the king to stammer.
"Save your words," said Kringle, "For your blood will deck my halls!"
But that's when Jesus' knee appeared and hit him in the balls.
Santa Claus spewed vomit and he dropped his hammer down,
He held his shattered nuts and groaned, and fell upon the ground,
"Ooh, the baby boy's all grown," said Kringle, "Look who's back!
I wonder if you've got the grapes to fight me. Got the sack?"
"Enough! Tonight we end it, 'Satan.' Get behind me now!"
And as he said this Jesus rolled his cuffs and took a bow.
Jesus picked the fat man up, cocked back his holy fist
But Santa boxed his ears and stopped him short with nipple twists,
Christ howled in the snowfall and he gouged at Kringle's eyes
And rabbit-punched his balding skull and chop-blocked both his thighs,
Jesus ran with arm outstretched and clotheslined Santa down
He then applied the figure four while Claus was on the ground,
Santa had experience, and shifted all his weight
Jesus saw it coming, but reaction came too late,
Kringle flipped him over and the pressure went to Christ,
Straining his bare, blesséd knees as if held in a vice,
Jesus snapped his fingers - with a flash, both men were swapped
So now Claus was in pain again and Jesus was on top,
"Cheaty-cheat Emmanuel!" cried Claus, his legs in pain,
"Suck it, Kringle! Suck it down!" was Jesus's refrain
Loos'ning up the hold, Christ stood and dropped an elbow, swift
But Santa caught his falling arm and, standing, held him stiff
He took him by his neck and robe and forced his head straight down
A Kringle DDT made Jesus wear a snowy crown,
He tried to punch the sacred heart, but Jesus trapped his hand
And fired then an uppercut that turned his teeth to sand,
Santa spit out tooth-bits, blood, and pieces of his tongue,
He buckled as Christ hit his chest, collapsing both his lungs.
Bloody knuckles, bloody faces, ripped, worn tattered clothes,
Black eyes, puffy faces, each, possessed these tired foes;
Spent and quite exhausted, both men breathed from mouth and nose,
And Jesus staggered as he picked up Santa's hammer from the snow.
"Go king, run the sleigh again, for this is not your fight,
I will finish this," said Christ, "and save the world tonight.
Say no words, don't thank me, king - I know your heart's at rest.
You'll do well to get going now, for this'll be a mess."
Wenceslas rejoined the sleigh and saw the hammer raised
The reindeer started running, carried king and kids away;
Behind him, windborne, came the faint report of further scuffle
He swore he heard a cry and smash, but both were soft and muffled.
As the sun kissed Christmas Day and raised to light the realm
People saw a distant sleigh with Wences at the helm,
He brought the kidnapped children back to parents in the morn,
He shouted from the sleigh "Say hallelujah, Christ is born!"
Islingcross has had its share of legend, myth, heresay
But nothing more fantastic than 'The King and Christmas Day.'
User Reviews
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-20 02:20:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-01-11 15:00:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Santa Voltage drops in to pay a visit to the little boys and girls.
HERE'S A +2 LITTLE ONES! KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK! HO HO HO!
Submitted by minimumdino (user info) at 2006-01-11 14:21:05 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
a kid fell into the vents today
Submitted by Ditka (user info) at 2006-01-08 00:06:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
cripes these are long
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-12-19 08:57:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Congrats on the win!
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-19 00:26:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Fewest. hits. ever.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-17 00:10:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-12-16 19:26:28 (#)
Ranking: 2
More poetry.
---
Aye. I gotta stick with what works, y'know?
I'm developing a brand here, laddy. I can't stray from the formula, lest I be mistaken for someone else.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-17 00:01:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I'm a prevert?
But I look at pron.
Damnit.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-12-16 19:26:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
More poetry. You get more slime with a dime than you
do with a rhyme. Lemme have a nickel's worth.
Gazboy, yer one of them there twisted pre-verts.
You really should look into publishing your stuff.
It kicks major ass!! Dickhead.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-12-16 14:42:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I can't believe this has so few reviews.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-12-16 14:42:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This kicked an incredible amount of ass. Well done and thanks for writing.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-16 11:06:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
ghola - yeah, though I find that the audience here is typically a little more receptive to something that flows and rhymes.
This was originally going to be done as a play written in blank verse. Think 'Christopher Marlowe's King Wenceslas,' or something of that sort.
I, however, didn't have enough time. That's my fault, though.
My first Ubermas entry isn't entirely rhymed, if you'd like to check that out.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2005-12-16 10:49:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i thought i already rated this.
do you dally in poetry of the nonrhyming variety?
just wonderin'
Submitted by fluff (user info) at 2005-12-16 10:37:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-12-16 08:36:50 (#)
Ranking: 2
fuck nate
--------------
Why isn't anybody (like Bart for excample) shutting this natekid down?
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-16 09:59:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
scourge/JM -
It's all too true about the ball-tickling. That's why I had to stop using quill pens in the 90s.
I can't very well go start using them again now, what with the avian flu and all.
But, no. No pen of quill or candlelight.
Like I said last night -- beer, bread and Johnny Cash CDs.
Oh, and naked. I can only write in rhyme when my wang is hanging free.
Makes it a little problematic at the office, but my co-workers can go fuck themselves if they have a problem with my free-range dangle.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2005-12-16 09:53:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
<TOO busy>
stupid scourge
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2005-12-16 09:42:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Damn, my man. This caliber of writing is the reason I continue to click on posts with your name. Well, this and the desperate attempt to fill the emptiness inside by complimenting internet strangers and hoping they'll reciprocate. I don't know what else to say.
jack, if he had a quill pen he'd be to busy tickling his own balls with it to get anything written.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-12-16 09:32:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I know it isn't the way things are, but I like picturing you writing this stuff out longhand with a quill, by the light of a flickering oil lamp.
Fucking incredible.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-12-16 08:36:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
fuck nate
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-12-16 07:59:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
*eyes go wide*
FUCK ME IN THE GOAT-ASS!
Dude, that's just....wow. Damn.
No contest here, you just won round 2. It will take a true Christmas miracle for me to outrank you on this masterpiece. And I don't think the Big Guy is handing out any miracles to ME after he read my round 1 submission.
Submitted by Bob_Dole (user info) at 2005-12-16 03:10:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
and another to help counter nates bullshit. cant we have him executed already?
Submitted by Bob_Dole (user info) at 2005-12-16 03:08:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
wow... thats... wow...
Submitted by ahumblefool (user info) at 2005-12-16 01:32:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wholly fuck o rama!
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-16 00:54:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Aces!
Thanks for that, clitring.
Submitted by nate (user info) at 2005-12-16 00:48:38 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
auto -2 poetry
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2005-12-16 00:28:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Genius, in an x-massy way.
Submitted by LadyK (user info) at 2005-12-16 00:26:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow, that was quite impressive.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-16 00:15:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
In case you were wondering (not that it matters if you've made it down here) -- Wenceslas = when-sis-loss.
Oh, and let me be the first to say "WTF, I'm not reading all that."
Serves me right for getting behind the 8-ball time-wise and contracting diarrhea of the keyboard.