Fellow’s stout, as a reindeer driver he’s birchin’,
urgin’ on his herd ’n’ scourgin’ their behinds.
Then on Christmas night on sweet delights he’s snackin’—
the guy must be sugar-rushed out of his mind.

But when we check Clement Moore we find:

“A right jolly old elf” and everybody’s pal.
In that pipe, perhaps, some cannabis is parked.
Infiltrates by chimney, this gifts-bearer;
on his back, pack’s panoply’s toys.
Yes, but still—how’s he treat elves at their tasks?
Who is the real Saint Nick that’s from the Pole embarked?

He’s schleppin’ in the dark. BiPolar? Down-up.

Mellow or gruff? What exactly is Santa’s game?
Is he compensating for a childhood marked
by privation, so that’s why he’s hoggin’
all those goodies that are left there?
To the haul herd I’ve heard he’s a terror.
But on the other hand, he plays the gen’rous part.

Perhaps his affect can from dark to lightness arc;
on the one hand we have the story told by Clarke,
but Billy Bob’s Bad Santa makes the contrast stark.
Maybe it’s best questions with Mrs. Claus should start;
his attitude toward her could be nice, could be tart.
Ma Claus, is Saint Nick a prick or sweet as a tarte?
Under the warm blankets, does he disarm or fart?