"Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the trees,
The critters 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 a rude 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 the 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 right away it was that St. Nick punk.
His sleigh was a Harley and his reindeer were gay,
And he belched, and farted and bellowed away..

Now, Flasher! Now, Dicker! Now, Picker and Ditz!
On Vomit, on Stupid! On Blunder and Blitzed!
You're all too fat! You're as slow as molasses!
Now, move it! Move it! Before I can all your asses!

As the dry heaves within me began to 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, liquor 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 fell on his bum.

He was dressed all in rags, from his head to his feet,
And he smelled like whiskey and something else not too sweet.
A bundle of crap he had in some sack,
He looked like a junkie who was smoking some crack.

His eyes- how they cringed! His face- how pathetic!
His cheeks were frostbitten.. he needed a medic!
His saggy frame wobbled to and "fro,
This isn't the Santa I used to know!

The butt of a cigarette did hang from his beard,
He was stumbling and retching, mumbling something weird.
He had holes in his boots and a great big gut,
That shook, when he farted, from his big hairy butt.

He said, "Mikey! Don't shoot! It's me, St. Nick!
Christmas has changed and it's making me sick!
People don't remember the true meaning of Christmas no more,
As they commercialize, irrationalize, and run off to the store!"

I spoke not a word, "cuz I knew he was right,
Christmas HAD changed, and 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!"