-> "Glug Rye Before Christmas (A Tipple with Saint Drinksalot)"
Original Song Title:
"The Night Before Christmas (A Visit From Saint Nic"
Parody Song Title:
"Glug Rye Before Christmas (A Tipple with Saint Drinksalot)"
Slug down rye before Christmas and get pretty soused.
No need to be stirring; drink neat and don’t grouse.
Over I’ll be hung when I wake but don’t care—
Just open esophagus, pour it down there.
The children I’ve wrestled, at last!, into beds;
I’m swiggin’ no shitty rum spiced…tastes like meds!
I’m gonna be having more than a nightcap
As up from the glass the sweet rye I will lap.
True, all this consumption is making me fatter,
Combined with all the cookies stashed on that platter.
And my drinking habit’s costing lots of cash—
And it is making my lovely wife’s teeth gnash.
I really love gin, though I keep in my flask
A pint of redeye, which is up to the task.
Then I hear a sound and go to the window,
Witness something that makes goosebumps on my skin grow.
I’m thinking that maybe I should stick to beer:
’cause an apparition appears and then comes near.
It’s a little old biber with nose beyond pink;
I knew from that schnozz that it must be St. Drinks.
More plastered than Dino he is; it’s a shame,
He drives his sleigh right into roof slates—down some rain.
He’s plastered, he’s smashed, ’n’ he crashed; will need fixin’:
My housetop. How stupid? Before long, the pricks’ in.
The fires hot; he’ll get scorched as he stumbles and falls,
With ass aflame, down the main flue, with charred balls.
When I’ve put out the flames, he says, “I’m mighty dry.
I could sure use a shot. Have you any redeye?”
I think that the wife and kids might think it rude
If they knew that I helped get St. Drinksalot stewed.
What the f*ck, I say, this could be quite a goof—
I get a bottle that is very high proof.
As he dusts himself off, he spreads cinders around,
But I couldn’t care less as I pour him a round.
He says, “Thanks, man, this will help to cut through the soot.”
His bloated guts tells me, he’s not from Lilliput.
Toys litter the ground from his once-piled-high sack
When he hit the roof after way too much dry sack.
He glugs the rye and says that he’s sick of sherry.
I ask him how much he drinks; he just smiles, “Very.”
He opens his mouth and lets the redeye flow.
Then he asks, “By the way—have you got any blow?”
He sticks a crack pipe between his rotting teeth
And says he would like to be in my wife’s sheath.
He stops and then suggests that I give him head.
I respond: Try that and your nose will have bled.
He reaches inside his pants, as if to jerk.
I say, have some more rye and from that work shirk.
He snorts a line of coke up his sooty nose,
Then guzzles more rye as if he’s in the throes
Of DTs, but then jokes: “Just wetting my whistle;
He splits, never having read my son’s epistle.
And I hear him exclaim, his driving far from right:
“Shit! I’m followed by a sleigh with flashing blue light!”
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