by Brad Locke
from Agape Press
'Twas the night before Christmas, I sat on my couch.
My brain was not stirring, just call me the Slouch.
My bedtime was past, but what did I care?
I must watch SportsCenter, and of sports stay aware.
My thoughts they were nestled, all snug in in my head,
As visions of Chris Berman, dulled all sense of dread.
Kenny Mayne and his drollness, Stu Scott's big ol' yap,
Left in my brain not even the faintest synapse.
When out of the tube there arose so much chatter.
I opened my eyes to see who'd gotten madder.
Up to the camera a man had just dashed.
He'd cut off Jim Rome, and his "take" on Steve Nash.
The man had bad breath (don't ask how I know).
He said, "My name's Beezle, I come from below.
"When what to my sleep-crusted eyes should appear,
But a pitch for my soul with an arrogant sneer
With a little cajoling, and his rapier wit,
Beezle convinced me that he wouldn't quit.
Quite like an eagle he sunk in his claws,
As he whistled and mocked all of my great flaws:
"Your mouth's full of rancor!
Your heart lacks conviction!
Your comments are stupid!
I loathe your contentions!
I bring you a torch
To light up your faults!
I'll grind away, grind away,
'Til I see you fall!"
As fear o'ertook me, and my mouth did go dry,
I stared at this obstacle of my own design.
I pondered in wonder what course I should choose,
With a soul full of grief, and a heart that did rue.
And as I sat thinking of all Beezle's proof
Of my dancing around the cold, heartless truth;
As I drew up my knees, I dare not look up now,
For Beezle was coming right into my house.
Through my big screen, he first stuck his foot,
As he climbed in he gave me the evilest look.
A bundle of sin he'd flung over his back,
And he looked like a lawyer about to attack.
His eyes -- how they smoldered! His wrinkles, quite scary!
His cheeks were like coals, and his nose a blackberry!
His thin little mouth was drawn up in a smirk,
And the beard on his chin was as dark as wet dirt.
The stump of my will he held firm in his teeth,
And a snake encircled the head of this beast.
He had a cross face (and yes, breath so smelly),
And he shook when he laughed as my legs turned to jelly.
He was muscular, fit and quite sure of himself,
And I gasped when I realized my soul's ailing health.
A wink of his eye and a nod of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had plenty to dread.
He spoke hurtful words, and went straight to his work.
"You're nothing," said Beezle , "but a sports junkie jerk.
Your ten idle fingers type meaningless prose.
To reality your mind and your heart are tight closed."
I sprang to my senses, my courage did bristle.
My fears flew away as the truth became crystal.
I loudly exclaimed, "I'm a weak sinner, you're right.
But you can't convict me; I rest in Christ's might!"
Top of Page
