Twas’ the Night Before Christmas and Santa got Drunk by Margaret Marie Hubbard

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the woods
not a fireplace going, from the drought, no one could!
The stockings had holes, but were hung with such care,
In hopes that Saint Nick won’t forget them this year.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of Spongebob danced in their heads.
And I at my typewriter, with Papa at work,
I bought him some coal, cause he’s been such a jerk.

Then out in the driveway arose such a noise,
I wondered if it would soon wake the boys.
Away to the window I flew like The Flash,
Pulling strings on the blinds, they fell with a crash.

The moon wasn’t bright but our porch light would show,
all the crap in the yard and I needed to mow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a huge Chevrolet, and a dead eight point deer.

The driver was bending over and…Yep, getting sick.
There was no mistaking, that was poor old Saint Nick.
More rapid than ever, the dry heaving came,
And he bellowed so loudly each time just the same.

“On, Tuesday! Now, Wednesday! I got to quit mixin’,
On, Friday! Now Saturday with a sly Vixen!
To the top of the morning, to the top of the wall,
I’ll drink away, drink away, drink away ALL!

And then, as he tinkled, I had enough proof,
I began to write out this cute little spoof!
As I thought in my head, and was playing around,
Down he went in the dirt, like a red drunken clown.

He was dressed in faux fur, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were too big, a huge stain on his seat!
He drooled from his mouth upon yellow snow,
and his beard oddly was hung pretty low.

He held a small pipe, though he didn’t have teeth
and the smoke smelled a bit like some reef.
He had an old face and a gigantic beer belly,
that shook when he heaved like a bowl full of jelly.

He was pathetic, gross, and ashamed of himself,
Ms. Claus had left him with only one elf.
A twitch of his eye and the angle of his head,
I thought for a moment that Saint Nick was dead.

He spoke not a word, but stumbled and worked,
I thought to myself, Man, Santa’s a jerk!
And he lay his finger on the side of his nose,
and blew something out upon the boot’s toes.

He stood there swaying and mumbling, “Yo’ Momma!”
Then yelled really loud, “Something, Something, Obama?”
I guess that’s the end of Saint Nick’s career.
But, that’s what you get trading milk in for beer!!

End of the poem

15 random poems