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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 'Twas the night before Christmas, and there sat the Grouch, waiting for Santa and his present filled pouch. I'm sure that all of you have heard of the Grinch, but the Grouch is far worse, at least by one inch. That vile and distasteful sixty-six year old man had been writing poems which he pitched in a can. To tell you the truth, I don't think you've met a man with a more implacable vendetta. His heart was cold as a hard frozen icicle. As a kid, Santa never brought him a bicycle. So, when the fat fella came down through the chute, the Grouch was there waiting to lodge his dispute. The grumpy man challenged St. Nick to twelve rounds, and the two commenced boxing, no holds out of bounds. The two of them danced, and they bobbed, and they weaved. If it wasn't true, it could not be believed. I must say, it was an incredible fight. There were jabs, upper cuts, a left hook and a right, but in the twelfth round, to the sound of a crunch, Santa connected with a strong roundhouse punch. The Grouch smiled as he looked up from the ground, and he saw little birds, heard a sweet tweeting sound. He saw so many things that anyone would like, and he saw a shining candy-apple red bike. From that day on, he was happy as a joker. He even invited Santa Claus to play poker. I'm happy to say, he's no longer the Grouch, and the townsfolk, with feeling, say, "he's no slouch."
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