When Santa’s Put Into a Smartphone

There’s somebody up the chimney, somebody dressed in red.

But are you sure it’s Santa, not somebody else instead?

Ten talon-toes, two fiendish feet,

A blast of fiery furnace heat,

A wicked tail, a whooshing whip

Which ends in spear-sharp pointed tip.

No ‘ho, ho, ho’, no jolly hat,

Emerges on the fireside mat.

Instead two horns, demonic eyes,

Who could this be? What foul surprise?

I ordered him on my smartphone – ‘Santa Claus’ I said.

But autocorrect has done it again, it’s given me Satan instead.

 

 

 

 

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