Good eve to you, with all festive cheer,
We shall look at a book decidedly queer,
It is not unlike the stories of old,
Except for the fact its inhabitants are cold.
Not with a chill that one may have come to expect,
More with a death, and a craving to dissect.
For what we have here is a tale retold,
Of old Mr Scrooge and a time of old,
But here you’ll find, little festive delight,
For his little world is riddled with blight.
A zombie curse, I guess you could say,
Making the Christmas we know a far less joyful day.