There once was an elf named Jingle McSprout,
Who slacked on his quota and kept sneaking out.
While all of the others built toys by the heap,
He napped in a sleigh and pretended to sweep.

One morning the ledger came back with a clunk,
And Santa yelled, “Who made this pile of junk?”
Every elf froze as the numbers came clear.
Jingle had built… well… nothing this year.

So off he was marched with a terrified squeak,
Straight to the office he prayed not to seek.
For Mrs. Claus waited, all strict and severe,
A legend of discipline known far and near.

She shut the door gently, said, “Strip to your skin.”
The elf whimpered softly, “I never win.”
His clothes hit the floor in one nervous drop,
She lifted a cane like a candycane prop.

The first strike was loud, a crack like a whip.
He hopped up and down with a wobbly hip.
The second one landed with peppermint flair,
He yelped so hard ornaments shook everywhere.

She swung with precision, a festive routine,
Painting his butt in a red and white sheen.
By stripe number twelve his tears began to flow,
Hoping his cheeks would soon cool in the snow.

When all was done she said, “Back to your bench.
Next time you slack you will earn the full trench.”
He waddled out slowly, so sore as he rose,
His rear end brighter than Rudolph’s nose.

Now Jingle works daily with holiday pride,
A striped little warning across his backside.
And every elf whispers when snowfall is light,
“Do your job well or get caned by the Mrs. tonight.”

There once was a chef with a hat tall and white,
He chopped in the morning and stirred late at night.
But when she walked in with a grin oh-so sly,
His spatula dropped and his apron flew high.

She said, “Kneel right here by the oven, my dear,
This kitchen is mine when I happen to appear.”
He whimpered, he nodded, he dropped to the floor,
While she tapped a big spoon and demanded, “Some more!”

She tied him with twine that was meant for the roast,
She basted his backside, she buttered his toast.
The pots gave a clatter, the pans made a song,
As the chef moaned aloud, “Yes, Mistress, I’m wrong!”

She cracked him like eggs, she whisked him up fast,
She flipped him like flapjacks, he yelped at the blast.
And just like a soufflé that rose with delight,
The chef found submission was perfectly right.

So if you should wander where aromas are thick,
And hear naughty groans with a spatula click,
That’s not just the stew or the bread that’s been risen,
It’s the chef who submits in his own tidy kitchen!