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‘Twas the night before Crustmas, when through the garden patch
Not a creature was stirring while Papa brewed his next batch.

Entrails were hung on the walls of each lair in hopes that Father Nurgle soon would be there.
The Nurglings were nestled all snug in their puss while piles of feces engulfed a Leman Russ.
Typhus with his hive, and Epidemius in his goo had both just plopped down for a long Crustmas poo.

When out in the patch arose thunderous laughter, the minions all gathered to the foot of their master.
Away to the cauldron they danced en masse, tearing open their bellies to let the smaller ones pass.

The liquid that gleamed from inside the pot gave a greenish glow to the God of Rot.

When what to their plague-ridden eyes should appear? But a new slimy sick seeping out of their rears.
With a great chuckle and a loving grin, Grandfather Nurgle spoke unto his kin.
Enraptured by His great voice they stood near.
And he preached, and shouted, and bade them to hear.

“Go forth and rejoice, all plagues, pestilence, and rots.
Spread sickness and diseases with putrescent shots.
No gas mask will save them; all will heed my great call.
Now slough away! Slough away! Slough away all!!”

As grime that upon unwashed things starts to smear,
Wherever they tread, this new sick will adhere.
So down onto worlds the host did descend,
His gift to deliver, Father Nurgle’s new blend.

And then, in an instant, the screaming began
As throngs of people panicked, and foolishly ran.
When more came to revel in this wondrous gift,
His Great Unclean Ones came in through a rift.

They each bled all over, every orifice seeped,
And from their great bodies came a terrible reek.
They’re truly an amazing sight to behold,
And in their presence live things rot and metal corrodes.

Their eyes- how they bubble! Their Nurglings so merry!
Their cheeks carry toxins, their noses ooze verily.
Their great mouths speak of sick with much glee,
And the horns on their heads look like old Crustmas trees.

Pitted rusty swords they hold tight in the grasps,
And upon their dull ends many have breathed their last.
They have holes and cracks all over their forms,
Out of which fall Nurglings like putrid baby storms.

They are giant and fat, right jolly creations,
Who adore diseases in all their incarnations.
The stink of their plagues overpowers the dead,
And soon alerts all that upon them is dread.

They speak to their hordes, and send them all to His work,
Then lead them in battle, shrouded by thick murk.
Thus ensuring victory against Nurgle’s foes,
Great Unclean Ones, forever, herald plagued woes.

Grandfather Nurgle awards all his most faithful,
With opportunities to bring His gifts to all people.
These souls hear Him exclaim, ‘ere they succumb to their plight,
“Happy Crustmas to all, and to all spread this blight!”


Based on a similar work by Bomb Squig, my brother, to whom the credit for this version of the classic poem goes.

Beautiful.

A true work of art.

It brings a tear to the eye.

So sick sick sick sick sick sik sick sick sick its cool.

Exalted for the effort

Surprised no one has said much about this.... I'm not a big fan of nurgle, but this was very well done. I would like to see one of Khorne , but he seems to angry to use this poem lol

Thanks for the mention. Papa Nurgle fits a Santa-type father figure better than Khorne does. Maybe we can find some kind of parody for the other Chaos Gods.