The Krampus Carol
written by: Roger Turner
In cobbled towns where snowflakes bite,
There prances shadow, wrong not right
A creature horned with cloven feet,
Who sniffs at stockings, sour not sweet.
The children whisper, “Mind your head,
Or Krampus comes with rope and thread!
He’ll tangle toes, he’ll pinch your nose,
And pack you up in sacks of woes.”
Oh, furry fiend of alpine lore,
With chains that clatter, clang, and roar,
He jingles bells in backward song,
And pulls the naughty all night long.
“Beware!” cried Father Christmas, stern,
“For every gift you duly earn,
This crooked cousin—dark as tar—
Will chase you giggling from afar!”
He licks his lips with forked delight,
At bedtime stories told by night,
Of lazy lads and quarrelsome maids,
Whose manners molder, morals fade.
The Krampus skips with goatish glee,
And dances ‘round the Christmas tree;
He sets the angel’s wings askew,
And paints the baubles black and blue.
He hums a tune both sharp and flat,
A sort of snarly-warly chat,
Half growl, half giggle, half a sneeze—
(Which makes precisely thirds of threes).
He loves a paradoxical feast:
A lump of coal, a roasted beast,
A sugarplum that bites in two,
And bites the biter back at you!
The elders say, “He once was mild,
A fuzzy, frolic, festive child—
Till winter winds, with wicked cheer,
Twisted his tail from year to year.”
Now hornéd high, he leaps and bounds,
His hooves make hollow, hasty sounds;
And every echo, sharp and shrill,
Curls ‘round the moonlit, frosty hill.
The children hide beneath their beds,
And stuff their pillows on their heads;
They dream of toys, but quake and quake,
At creaky footsteps Krampus makes.
With sack in hand and tongue out long,
He slaps a drum that booms too strong;
It bounces baubles off the shelf—
And seems to play upon itself.
“Come out!” he calls with crooked mirth,
“I’ll wrap you snug and drag you forth!
We’ll sled on icicles, sharp and thin,
And tumble, tumble, tumble in!”
The cats all scatter, dogs all bark,
The lamps go out, the streets grow dark;
The owls cry “hoo,” the bells cry “clang,”
The Krampus shouts a gobbledy-bang.
He argues loudly with the snow,
That tries to hush his horns below;
But snowflakes, frail and faintly spun,
Are trampled quick, each one by one.
At times he mutters nonsense words:
“Snaggles, fraggles, fiddledy-birds!”
Then ties his tongue into a knot,
And sneezes sparks both cold and hot.
The baker’s pies, he nibbles twice,
Then stuffs them full of pepper-spice;
He cackles, coughs, and stamps the floor,
Then eats the crumbs, and asks for more.
The postman runs, the milkmaid flees,
The lamplight quivers in the breeze;
Yet somewhere, in the attic’s gloom,
The Krampus hums a carol-tune.
It is no hymn of holy peace,
But jingle-jangle, piece by piece—
A riddle-song of naughty fun,
That ends precisely where begun.
For Carroll’s verse he seems to know,
He twirls it high and drops it low;
A “Snark” or “Bandersnatch” he quotes,
And ties them round with scarlet notes.
The children cry, “Oh spare us, please!
We’ll mind our manners, wash our knees!
We’ll share our toys, we’ll do our sums—
Just don’t bring out those awful drums!”
The Krampus grins, his teeth all wide,
He twirls his chain, he swats his hide,
Then chuckles deep: “I’ll let you be—
But naughty waits for next year’s glee.”
Then off he gallops, goat to ground,
With sparks and splinters flying round;
He leaps the fence, he leaps the wall,
And vanishes with one more bawl.
The town awakes to silence clear,
No Krampus horns, no Krampus sneer;
Just stockings stuffed, and gifts in line,
And crumbs of coal that faintly shine.
Some say he’s Santa’s shadowed twin,
A moral wrapped in hairy skin;
For kindness shines, but shadows lurk,
To teach the naughty how they work.
Yet Carroll might have sung it so:
A topsy-creature, high and low,
Who scolds with riddles, roars with rhyme,
And tangles children every time.
So when December nights grow wild,
And snowflakes swarm both sharp and piled,
Just watch the dark, the bells that jolt—
And keep your manners, or you’re the colt.
He’ll tie you up with paradox,
And swap your shoes for slippery socks;
He’ll write your name in frosty air,
Then wipe it out with goatish glare.
And still the elders wink and say,
“He only comes but once a day—
The eve of Christmas, sharp and sly,
When children’s laughter meets the sky.”
So tuck your toes and mind your bed,
And keep good thoughts within your head;
For Krampus comes with rhyme and rattle,
To play the game of Christmas battle
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