Thirteen Yule Lads of Iceland
I am hiding in my bedroom, scared to death because my pajamas are not new.
I dare not put down my soup bowl because Bowl Licker will grab it up for stew.
I can feel him hiding under my bed, ready to grab it so I keep it beside me.
Christmas is scary, for I expect to see Christmas Cat under the tree.
Father Christmases, I say, in my most apologetic voice, hoping they all hear.
I can feel your presence, and apologize I could not get new pajamas this year.
I can hear Sausage-Swiper in the rafters, and he is free to eat all of my meat.
But keep Gryla away from us if you could, for I have had naughty little feet.
I can hear Stubby and Spoon Licker in the kitchen, slurping on our food.
They are teasing and laughing, truly in a funny Icelandic hilarious mood.
Gluggagaegir is at the window, peeping at me to open it up; he has a pup.
I dive under grandma’s homemade quilt, and cover my whole body up.
Christmas in other places might be happy, exciting, and a little bit tame.
In Iceland, we have thirteen Yule lads. Each has his own specialty fame.
If we are good, we can get candy from Skyr-Gobbler and his brothers.
But if we are bad, we can get boiled alive by Gryla. Just ask our mothers.
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2020
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