He is certainly the most competent here to have written that! When I saw he was posting this, I knew we were in for a treat!
Btw-mild hijack- Barbara Branden passed away last week & I am still hoping panache45 decides to start a “Ask a…” thread about his experiences in Ayn’s circle.
I would love to read a George R.R. Martin carol. I would write it myself except I am in the process of moving and won’t have time until after Christmas.
Anyone have opinions on my Snorri Sturluson one?
Daenerys Targaryen I really can’t stay
Khal Drogo Lady, there’s a moat outside
Daenerys Targaryen I’d like to go ‘way
Khal Drogo Lady there’s a moat outside
Daenerys Targaryen Your drawbridge is up
Khal Drogo I’m hoping you’ll share with me
Daenerys Targaryen And that’s not nice
Khal Drogo This lovely song of Fire and Ice
…I got nothin’
With apologies to Ogden Nash, who will probably rotate in his grave over this.
The hands of the clock were reaching high
In the house where Scrooge did dwell.
And as the stroke of midnight broke
There appeared an apparition from hell.
Jacob Marley his name and hell’s own flame
Illumed his eyeballs garish.
And the chains he wore dragged across the floor
With a sound that could make one perish.
“Scrooge,” he said with the voice of one dead
“I have come to give you warning.
Three spirits shall find you and with magic bind you
Ere the cock crows in the morning.”
His voice dropped to a whisper as soft as mud
In the bed of an old canal:
“Humbug you may say, but they will not go away
And they will haunt you in this locale.”
Marley vanished in thin air from Ebenezer’s stare
And the old man sat alone.
But when the bell tolled one, his trial was begun
For then the first spirit was shown.
It wore a garment of white that shown in the light
And a belt that twinkled quite fast.
“Who are you?” Scrooge said with a voice full of dread
And heard, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
The spirit’s ploy was to return to the boy
Who had grown up to be Scrooge the man.
And to show him the good that was in his childhood
And the love of his sweet sister Fan.
Then Old Fezziwig was there with his strange head of hair
Calling for the festivities to begin.
And the dancers came twirling with coats and capes a-swirling
And Scrooge remember what fun it had been.
Then he was returned to his room and fell asleep quite soon
Until suddenly the clock struck one again
A bright light pierced the gloom from the adjacent room
And Scrooge felt he was going insane.
He walked across the floor and opened the door
For such was his intent
But beheld with his eyes and with massive surprise
The Ghost of Christmas Present
A giant man sat there holding a torch in the air
And said, “Come in and know me better.”
On his head was a wreath and bare were his feet
And his demeanor was quite unfettered.
The ghost showed him the town and they wandered around
Seeing people enjoying the season.
Till they came to the abode of Cratchit, which showed
An abundance of cheer and good reason.
Scrooge saw Tiny Tim and was baffled by him
For he knew not that the child was a cripple.
And he watched as they ate and cleaned off every plate
And the family’s joy seemed to triple.
Scrooge asked of the spirit (for he alone could hear it),
“Tell me if Tiny Tim will survive.”
The spirit said, “Nay, he will be taken away
For this next year he shall not thrive.”
Then in the blink of an eye away they did fly
To the house of Scrooge’s nephew Fred
Where they played games and sang and their laughter rang
Until eventually someone said,
“Let’s play Yes-or-No and all have a go
At guessing the target described.”
And they asked and they pondered ‘till someone finally wondered,
“Is it Scrooge that we all have defined?”
The answer was yes, though the description was a mess
And not complimentary to old Ebenezer.
But Fred stood as the host and offered a toast
Of Merry Christmas to the old geezer.
Then the ghost took him home and when they were alone
He showed Scrooge Ignorance and Want.
And the sight of the orphans with no future or fortunes
Forever his memory would haunt,
The ghost was replaced by a spirit with no face
That was shrouded all in deep black.
His heart filled with dread; it appeared as one dead
And he took a trembling step back.
“Do my eyes now see Christmas Yet To Be?”
He asked with a quavering voice.
The ghost nodded its head and pointed straight ahead
And that motion left Scrooge no choice.
They went into the town and the talk went around
About a man who last night had died.
Though a name was not spoken, not a single heart was broken
And not a single eye cried.
They saw his things sold by the poor and the old
Who had taken them out of need.
But the money that they got when they sold the whole lot
Was lessened by the shopowner’s greed.
They continued on alone 'till they found a stone
Lying at the head of a grave.
The ghost pointed ahead and Scrooge looked and he read
His own name on the stone engraved.
He cried out in agony, “Oh please tell to me
“Are these things that come will or come may?”
But the ghost stood there and fixed him with a stare
And Scrooge began to pray.
“Good Spirit,” he begged as he bent down his leg
And knelt on the ground by the stone.
“Please give me a chance, another look, another glance,
To erase my name on this stone.”
He awoke in his room, his very own room
With a wonderous sense of joy.
He pranced about and gave a great shout
As if he were a young boy.
And as that new day began, he became a changed man
And he brought peace and joy to others.
He had learned that night, through his harrowing plight
That all men really are brothers.
But the ice ‘round his heart shattered and tore apart
And was replaced with the warmth of the sun
When he heard Tim, Bob’s boy, say with a voice full of joy,
“God bless us all, every one.”
Not at all, Clothahump. I think he’d be proud. Great job!
Not until after you finish the Gone With the Wind version, damnit. It’s been hanging fire for two years now.
I don’t really do Icelandic eddas, but it was a promising start. 
And well done to panache45 and Clothahump both!
(and I’d quite forgotten what I wrote last year).
I see what you did there.
And in two years not one person has commented on it, which is not exactly encouraging.
No, really, I am very much in the process of moving or I would love to.
I would guess that in Westeros, the holiday of Kristenmass would honor the name day of Jeezas of Nassereth, called by some King of the Jus in the North.
Jon I’ve been a silent fan of yours for years, all the stories of your family and the southern gothic. Please, please, please, with sugar on top, (as a casserole for the dead) post the conclusion of the Gone with the Wind version.
The spryte of Khrustmyss pasts, his velvet gowns covering his cock, attempted to lead EbanAerys Targaryen from the window of the Tower of the Hand, but the Mad King was transfixed on the little imp in the corner. His brother and sister were playing with their toys from all of the known lands. For Cersei there was a ridable toy dragon, the size of a fat pony, made by Mhyrish craftsmen from the hides of Dothraki mares and fitted with a side saddle of velvet and pearl inlaid laquer, borne aloft by two voiceless eunuchs from the Freeish City of Trandsandynsporkmeran, one of who exhaled a green fire through the copper bathed nostrils. There were dolls fitted with all known shades of hair taken from the slave markets of Vuglaris and Triptofan and Bue Nunswick and Junursey, each doll with its own living slave, two of whom Cersei was branding now. For Jamie, a stuffed lion, his mane beaded with emeralds and rubies, on wheels and pulled by captives from the Black Islands, and an assortment of swords made by the finest smiths and metallurgists in the seven kingdoms, each with a hilt of gold. For them both, a boat load of silks slashed with velvet garments, gold trimmed green velvet slashed with blue silk, blue satin festooned with the gilded teeth of porpoises as bangles, capes of ermine dyed aubergine and festooned with the sigil of House Lannister embroidered in multicolored pearls. And then there was the supper table, with pheasants stuffed in hams and basted in fig glaze, assorted chops covered in twelve spices and cooked flambe and garnished with eagle feathers, lamb boiled in its mothers milk and baked into the most delicate pies in the seven kingdoms, almond and honey cakes in the shape of every animal in Maester Fulgaze’s bestiary, and every fruit in season and most fruits not in season.
While in the corner Tyrion sat with his present, a stick he had named Horse, which Cersei stole as Eben Aerys watched, prompting the little imp to ask all, “Where do horse go? Where do horse go?”
“Tell me spyrite”, the Mad King asked. “What will become of the little imp? Will Tiny Tyrion live? Will he find out where horse go?”
“I can tell you”, the enormous bearded specter in the fisherman’s cap assured him, “I know exactly what will become of him.”
“Then SPEAK!” said the Mad King.
“Nea, I shall not, for there are those that read who should if I did say the future be as butthurt as the boy whores at the Mud Gate on the day the Guild of Florists and Dancmasters won the lottery.”
And as they departed they heard Tiny Tyrion observe, “The Seven bless us every one! Except for Cersei, who’s a cunt.”
Brilliant!
This entire thread is made of win. I reckon myself as well-up on A Christmas Carol as the next man, but I’d struggle to match any of the contributions here.
Any suggestions for this year’s writers?
How about E. L. James? Fifty Shades of Christmas. 
May I make that my Facebook status on Christmas morning, please?
In the style of Suzanne Collins, who wrote the Hunger Games trilogy:
It is not often the Capitol gets winter, but on this night, it does. It is a week or so before New Years, and we are trying to take the Capitol, in spite of the weather.
We hold most of the Capitol, and I have been assigned to my former quarters in the Tributes building. It is as comfortable as it previously was, but this time, there is no Cinna, no assistant stylists, no Effie. I am on my own in my Tribute’s quarters, though my squad is nearby.
I cannot help but feel that I am here only for propaganda purposes. This must be why they have assigned me my former comfortable quarters. President Coin of District 13 does not want me to fight, unless it is in perfect safety, and cameras are rolling. But I must get into the fray; I must kill President Snow. He has taken so much from me. From us.
I fall asleep on the comfortable bed, and I dream.
My father first. Dear Father, who died in the mines, is here with me, to remind me of this time of year when I was young. We had little, but Father still made much of this festive time of year. There would be some kind of game he caught; and later, that he and I hunted. Mother would cook his, and later, our catch, and he sang and danced with Prim and Mother, and I; and for one day, we thought we were the richest in 12, well-fed and happy.
Then I dream of Rue. Little Rue, who saved me in my first Games, and who I can never adequately repay. But she shows me around District 11, and I see people, free of the Peacemakers, smiling and sharing what they have. She takes me to District 8, which is working together to rebuild. She takes me to District 2, which is forgiving. I remember a long-forgotten phrase and I realize that Rue is restoring my soul.
Then, I dream of an Avox. Not just any one, but the one who attended to me in my first Games. Kind and caring then, but in this dream, very serious. She shows me a casket, unattended by anybody. I don’t know who is in it. Is it me? Is it, as I hope, President Snow? I cannot see, and I try to draw closer. But an explosion wakes me.
I go to the window, which has been blown out. I’m safe, but who knows how many of our forces are killed or injured? I see a familiar figure on the street, and reach for my bow. The cold weather comes in, but I can deal with it.
It is not often the Capitol gets winter, but on this night, it does. It is a week or so before New Years, and we are trying to take the Capitol, in spite of the weather.
Tonight, Snow falls.
A Christmas Carol by Edward Lear
High on the Acquisity Tree
The Scroobious Scrooge did dwell –
He thought himself happy, and couldn’t see
That his life was a living hell.
How cruelly he treated his slave, the Cratch –
And the Wobbledegong, and the Bandersnatch –
And his nephew Fred, and the city’s poor;
So no-one was willing to come to the door
Of the Scroobious Scroogy Scroo.
Until one Christmas Eve,
Assorted spooks did call
On the Scroobious Scrooge right up on his tree,
And berated him withal.
First his dead business partner, the Marley-Bone,
Warning how he could not stay for keeps, on his lone
Without at last meeting a sad, hopeless fate –
And so brought further sprites, to his one-time mate:
The Scroobious Scroogy Scroo.
Along came Christmaswayback
Recalling erstwhile fun,
Ere to dismal realms of Misanthroop
The Scrooge’s voyage had begun:
His Sis, whom he’d loved – she now long dead –
(Although she was Mum to the rude punk Fred);
And partying times in the long before,
And the girl that he’d lost – what with wealth valued more
By the witless young Scroogy Scroo.
He was shown by Christmasnow
The Cratch and his teeming brood,
Commemming the season, but who-knows-how? –
With barely-sufficient food.
And those yet worse-off, in Satanic mills,
Or the Zemmery Fidd, or the Chankly Hills;
And nephew Fred at his groaning board,
Saying “sod old Humbug, likewise his hoard” –
All perturbing the Scroogy Scroo.
And Christmasnotyet, that spoke not a word,
Took our friend on a journey grim
To lone, narrow sepulchres, cold and bleak,
On the desolate shores of the Blofskey Feek,
On the Guphtric Ocean’s rim.
With one for poor nameless broke souls, ground-down,
And one for a person from London town:
Viz. the Gimpy Kid of the Diligent Cratch.
And the last, right alongside of it, dug to match,
Reserved for the Scroogy Scroo.
This salutary experience
Got through to the Scroobious Scrooge:
In the morn he woke – into diatribes broke,
Concerning his wrongthoughts huge.
“I’ve been a right miserable so-and-so –
What I thought made sense, was the wrong way to go.
Compassion I scorned, o’er the balance-sheet drooled:
I was Bolloxly-Squolloxly-Bongaloo-fooled !”
Thus shouted the Scroogy Scroo.
He’d said his say, and he did his do,
The repentant Scroobious Scrooge –
To the Cratches he brought, festive feast for to swell,
A bird of the Turk ilk, huge:
And added thereto, for their molscious cheer,
Poppersquiff Pudding and Bolstrop Beer;
And the Cratch and his tribe, with the Gimpy Kid,
Said, “God bless us all !”, and it seems He did.
And the Scrooge made his peace with his nephew Fred,
Who said, “fair enough, Unc – you needn’t drop dead,
You Scroogious old creature, you !”
And the folk all remarked: it’s a fact indeed,
That Scrooges are happier without their greed.