‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the cell,
Not a sound could be heard, just the toll of a bell.
The moon cast its glow, on the bars cold and bare,
As the madman sat brooding, derangement to spare.
His past was a circus, a life in the air,
Only now he was chained, to his cold dark lair.
A murderous screw, his mind all a fray,
A brilliant acrobat, led far far astray.
His only companion, a bat named Beatrice,
Stained with the blood, of a malevolent tryst.
Two inmates laid cold, their fate she had sealed,
A demon called Tuga and Prophet, revealed.
The madman spoke out, of Frostbite’s cruel game,
A 5-on-5 match, with opponents to maim.
Victor Doom, a creature, of monstrous might,
Dahlia Black, with darkness her only light.
Aster Grey, immortal, would challenge his fate,
Harvey Escher, a butcher, dioramas ornate.
Jasper Redgrave, the leader, with artful intent,
A murdering sculptor, a canvas of torment.
As the night wore on, he devised his attack,
His mind was a tempest, a storm in the black.
Beatrice, she whispered, of vengeance and pain,
A symphony of madness, a sinister reign.
The cell door creaked open, a herald of doom,
The guards led him out, to the impending gloom.
The frost in his veins, matched the chill in the air,
As the ring bell sounded, his eyes cold and bare.
Pre-Snow it loomed, a ferocious ballet,
A dance to the death, no words left to say.
The ring was a battleground, a theatre of fear,
The madman stepped in, his destiny near.
Victor Doom loomed, a brute of the night,
But the madman delivered, a deadly delight.
Dahlia she moved, with shadows unseen,
Yet Beatrice swung back, a murderous queen.
Aster Grey endured, and tried to defy,
But the madman’s disorder, made time pass awry.
Harvey Escher he crafted, dioramas of dread,
But the bat struck again, leaving carnage widespread.
Jasper Redgrave, the captain, the artist so sly,
Faced the madman’s wrath, a relentless supply.
The bat swung with fury, the crowd roared and cheered,
As chaos and slaughter, painted a scene so clear.
The canvas was stained, with the blood of the fallen,
A spectacle gruesome, a chorus of callin’.
His team stood victorious, survivors they be,
In this arena of madness, a dark jubilee.
As the final bell tolled, as the last foe fell,
The madman looked out, a king from his hell.
His team had emerged, shadows in the night,
In Meadows’ squared circle, they had embraced the fight.
Back on Deathrow, he returned to his cell,
With Beatrice well rested, silent and swell.
No stockings were hung, no carollers sang,
Just a desolate space, where gloom often sprang.
Yet on this dark eve, through the cold prison air,
The madman performed, a malicious affair.
The Red Mile’s inmates, silent and still,
Witnessed the madness, the sleight of his kill.
And as he laid down, his rest well earned,
He spared a thought for his rivals, at the chance they had spurned.
Happy Christmas to all, and to all you hold dear,
This one’s for you, Maxxie, ’cause We’Re AlL mAd HeRe.