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.