This is a whodunit story in the first degree,
Missing in action, what a mystery.
Santa had helpers, called merry elves,
Manufacturing toys on plethora of shelves.
For all the good mites all over the land,
Santa was thankful for the helping hand.
Now one particular elf if I can recall,
Was the ballsiest of them all.
Enjoyed sitting in Santa’s special chair,
He'd state, "Well it's comfy there.
I feel like a royal king,
In the huge overstuffed thing”.
The story goes that one day that glistened,
This certain elf had just gone a missin'.
His hat and belled shoes strewn in Santa's chair,
Everyone shocked to see them just lying there.
Santa released the basset hound,
To see if the little elf could be found.
But sadly, not even a trace of him,
Losin' hope as the twilight grew dim.
Rumors floated, of a bloody demise,
The gossip came to no surprise.
Stunned by thoughts of acts of violence,
Santa asked for a moment of silence.
Bowing their heads with respect
looking around rather perplexed
Swearing they still heard a faint voice,
As Santa sat in his chair of choice.
Santa being rather a jolly ole lout,
Couldn't seem to figure out.
Why his signature Santa suit,
Kept calling him a fat brute.
With defeat Santa stood to go,
But wait! There’s something you should know!
Pointing, with a collective gasp, and abject stare,
Santa wondered why they gaped at his derriere.
runnin' to his room,
Dazed in the mournful gloom.
In the mirror he looked back,
Spying cheeky elf, in his butt crack.