Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the streets, Not an ibis was stirring, not even for eats. The stockings were hung off the side of a bin, For all friends and family to put rubbish in.

The bin chickens snoozed and waited for morning, But didn’t sleep well thanks to Jimmy’s loud snoring. Suddenly, noises awoke us with fright, Like a pin piercing sound on this quiet, warm night.

I untucked my legs, I shook juice off a feather, Rubbed trash from my eyes, stretched my neck made of leather, I peeped out the top of my sleep-bin to see, And saw something incredible, you best believe me!

I think it was Santa, but not how you know him, He’s been misrepresented each song and each poem. Instead of a beard, a long and thin neck, Instead of a face, there’s a footlong beak, heck!

Instead of his arms, he’s got big white wings, In fact, he seems to have changed a few things… It’s Santa, for sure, but … can he be? Really? I watch him with caution, as he approaches my wheelie.

He opens his beak and lets out a squawk, He follows it up with ‘I just wanna talk’. ‘It turns out that Santa’s too busy these days, So each earthly creature now has their own ways,

There’s Santa for insects, there’s one for the sea, There’s one for the dogs, the cats, and there’s … me.’ I find myself curious, I want to ask him more questions, But he’s scurrying off in different directions.

With his bag of gifts, he blurs out of sight, And it dawns on me that the future looks bright. There’s so much to do and the clock, it’s a-tickin’… Merry Christmas to all from Santa Bin Chicken.