The Grinch in the style of Mighty Mom

Every Scrib down in Scrib-ville

Liked writing a lot…

But the Grinch

Who lived just north of Scrib-ville

Did NOT!

The Grinch hated writing! In fact, reading, as well.

Now, please don’t ask why, for he never will tell.

It could be his prescription wasn’t measured quite right.

Some might argue he still gripped pencil too tight.

But, whatever the reason,

His eyes or his grip,

The Grinch stood on Christmas Eve, hating the Scribs.

For he knew every Scrib down in Scrib-ville below

Was revising their stories and making them glow.

“And they’re penning their poems—their Christmas cards, too.

I can just hear them now, ‘Season’s Greetings to you!’”

Yes, he’d had quite enough. But what could a Grinch do?

Then he got an idea!

An awful idea!

The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea!

“I’ll dress up like Santa and go into town

At night when the Scribs will for sure not be found.

And I’ll take all their paper, their pencils and pens,

Their books and computers, their useless book ends.

With nothing to write with and nothing to read

Not a word would be heard—quite a Grinch-y good deed.”

That very same night,

With old Max and his sleigh,

He slid into to Scrib-ville, his plan underway.

In no time at all he had filled all his sacks

With laptops and journals and pens in their caps.

He was at the last house when a little voice cried,

“Santa, why are you taking my story books? Why?”

He turned around fast, and what did he see?

Little Susie-Lou Scrib who was no more than three.

But you know that old Grinch was so smart and so slick

He thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.

“They’re missing two commas and some onomatopoeia.

I’ll fix them at home, then I’ll bring them back here.”

And as Susie-Lou Scrib went to bed with her cup,

The Grinch went to the chimney and stuffed the books up.

It was quarter past dawn…

All the Scribs still asleep

When he packed up his sleigh and away he did creep.

He had every last word

Not a one had he missed:

The phone books, the flyers,

the last grocery list.

Three-thousand feet up! Up the side of Mt. Crumpit,

He road with his load to the tiptop to dump it.

Once there, the Grinch paused,

For wouldn’t you know,

He wanted to hear the Scribs waking below

“Their mouths will hang open a minute or two

and, with no word to be heard, they will all cry BOO-HOO!”

So the Grinch put a hand to his Grinchy green ear

And stood listening hard for what he wanted to hear

But then over the crest of the new fallen snow

He heard a soft sound and it started to grow.

All the Scribs down in Scrib-ville

The tall and the small

Were sharing their words with no paper at all

“How could this be so?”

The Grinch said in a rage.

Words lived on in Scrib hearts and not on the page.

And what happened then?

Well, in Scrib-ville, they say.

That the Grinch’s tight grip grew three sizes that day.

He whizzed back into Scrib-ville, replete with his load.

Returning every last item, or so it’s been told.

And where’s the Grinch now?

Well, with his Grinchy-ish diction

He’s taking a class in

Creative non-fiction.