Ejoh

This might strike you as a bit odd because I have engaged in poetry. Yea, that’s right. Poetry. I have made a translation of a nice Swedish poem. It’s a parody on a very beautiful poem by Viktor Rydberg that’s called The Tomten.

Anyway, this parody is inspired by the rhyme Ten Little Indians which I am sure you have heard of. I took the time to make some illustrations for the text. I hope you’ll enjoy them.

The midwinter night is cold and harsh
Ten Gnomes in deep snow march
Fox trap hidden under snow so white
gets hold of Gnome, chops a bite
He lies down, his life is fading
one less Gnome is awake

Nine Gnomes walk in silent night
Their path is lit by the moonlight
Owl says hoo hoo from high up in tree,
Icicle loosen from branch and falls free,
A Gnome gets by the projectile hit,
the edge is sharp and his throat is slit

At the stair the yule porridge is steaming
Eight Gnome’s near it slowly, dreaming
They’re really hungry and lick their lips
A Gnome climbs up the bowl but on the edge he slips.
He struggles and fights bathing in sweat
Still he sinks in porridge, quicksand wet

In the cottage there is food they know
Through a hole seven Gnomes now go
The Cat which behind the door is hiding
swallows Gnome with hood and clothing
The Cat spits the bones out beneath
Licks the scraps from his teeth

Six Gnomes towards the table hurry
Climb the legs without a worry
Last Gnome lose his grip
Tries again but his hands just slip
Down he tumbles like a stone
The fall broke every single bone

Five Gnomes now in zeal
run fast to get a meal
Gnome stumble on his beard,
clothes and rug get blood-smeared.
Little Gnome, poor bastard
Pours down on the mustard

Four Gnomes have feasted on fish,
Now to have a drink they wish.
At the table they run in line,
To get a cup with hot mulled wine.
Gnome slips and falls in boiling ocean,
red and sore, he needs some skin lotion.

Three Gnomes on the table quietly wander
One Gnome shout; I see a cracker yonder
Down upon it a Gnome takes a leap
But ay ay the fall is far too steep
At roof and floor you dare not take a glance
They’re all covered in Gnome’s brain substance

Two Gnomes in the Christmas tree swing
Among lights, stars and angel wings
Gnome too close to a candle dares
Soon he’s like a giant flare
Smelling like a half burned steak
He screams and runs for the nearest lake

Master gets out to bed around three,
he has a urgent need to go and wee-wee
Under master’s big and heavy shoe,
Gnome gets the look of mashed stew.
The snow lies white here and there
Not a god damn Gnome is awake