‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the trees,
The rodents were stirring and swimming with disease.
Huge stockings were hung by the chimney with desire,
With hopes that the flames won’t catch them on fire.

The children were conked out and snoring in their beds,
While visions of videogames played in their heads.
With the wife in her teddy, and me in the nude,
We just settled down and got in the mood.

When out in the yard there arose an awakening,
I fell out of bed and it ruined our lovemaking.
Away to the window I started to run,
Yelling and cursing and clutching my shotgun.

The pollutions and toxins on the wet yellow snow,
Gave a sense of terror to animals below.
When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear,
But a scrungy old man with a 2-4 of beer.

With an erratic old driver, so loopy and drunk,
I knew that it had to be that St. Nick punk.
His sleigh was so tacky, his reindeer looked gay,
And he belched, and farted and shouted away...

Now, Flasher! Now, Licker! Now, Picker and Spits!
On Vomit, on Stupid! On Humper and Blitzed!
You’re all way too fat! You’re slow as molasses!
Now, move it! Move it! Before I can all your asses!

As dry heaves within me had started to let fly,
They met with my shotgun blast, and fell from the sky.
So down to my rooftop those morons they fell,
With a sleigh full of drugs, booze and Taco Bell.

And then, in a heartbeat, I heard on the roof,
Reindeer dung dropping and that drunk little goof.
As I went to the phone to call 9-1-1,
Down the chimney Nick had fell on his bum.

He was covered in crap, from his head to his feet,
And he smelled like whiskey and foul rotting meat.
A bundle of junk he had in some old sack,
And he looked like a moron who had plumber’s crack.

His eyes- how they cringed! His beard- how pathetic!
His cheeks were frostbitten... he needed a medic!
His saggy old frame was wobbling to and ‘fro,
This wasn’t the Santa that I used to know!

The butt of a smoke did hang from his beard,
He was stumbling and retching, mumbling something weird.
He had old worn out boots and a great massive gut,
That shook, when he farted, from his big hairy butt.

He said, “Mikey! Don’t shoot! It’s me, Old St. Nick!
Christmas has changed and it’s really making me sick!
No one remembers the true meaning of Christmas anymore,
As they commercialize, irrationalize, and run to the stores!”

I spoke not a word, ‘cuz I knew he was right,
Christmas was different now, and ‘ol Santa was a sight.
So he left me some beer and a bag of grass,
Then I shot the lazy bastard in the ass.

He whimpered and cried, and said, “Mikey, what’s your tiff?”
I said, “Christmas may have changed, but I still want my gifts!”
But I heard him scream as the ambulance was leaving,
“MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU BASTARD
… AND SCREW YOU FOR NOT BELIEVING!”