Twas the week before Christmas and all through my head,
Not a synapse was firing, I was mentally dead.
Whatever creative mystique I'd once known,
Had long since dried up like decalcified bone.

My comic was stricken with brain constipation,
Like the games that encompass my main inspiration.
The demands of updating it three times a week,
Had exhausted the source, Electronics Boutique.

I'd told jokes about roleplayers, jokes about shooters,
Even jokes about jokes about sensate computers.
So many times now I'd pulled from the same shelf,
That repeating the jokes was a joke in itself.

Ordinarily trolling the archive suffices,
Then changing the names of the games and devices.
But this week was Christmas, the holiday season,
And pulling that stunt would be treated like treason.

I couldn't spread schmaltz like a Hallmark purveyor;
I still have some pride, unlike Player versus Player.
I needed a gimmick, something new and unique,
That wouldn't enfeeble my mental physique.

Then it struck me like kicks from diminutive horses:
I'd recycle ideas from alternative sources!
The rhyme scheme I'd pilfer from Clement Clarke Moore,
And Lovecraft's grim musings would lend the decor.

I'll have my assistant draw a beast half malign,
And half fourth-grade anime fanfic design.
Then sprinkle some snow on the fiendish monstrosity,
And stretch the plot out to a five part atrocity.

The dearth of ideas in each new edition,
Will perfectly suit my own limited vision.
As a final attempt to deflect all the critics,
I'll say it's for kids, who lack such analytics.