||Friday 24th December 2010
'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE KRUSHTMAS
'Twas the night before Krushtmas, in olde Terror Tower
Every creature was rockin', including a flower;
Stockings were 'anging round ankles with no care,
In hopes that St Boozeius soon would be there;
The children were passed out all snug in their beds,
While visions of Sabbath danced through their heads;
And the missus in 'nuffin, and I in my gag,
Had just settled down for a long winter's shag,
When out of the window there arose such a light,
I sprang from the bed to see what it might.
Away to the window I flew second class,
Tore open the shutters and showed 'em me arse!
The moon sucked her breast on the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of cocaaaaaaaaaaine to objects below,
When, what to my double vision should appear,
But a miniature whiskey, and eight tiny beers
With a little old driver, so lively and drunk,
In a moment I knew it was Rasputin the monk.
More rapid than snails his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and vomited, and called them by name;
"Now, Bullsey! now, Harley! now, Smudger and Milly!
On, Goldby! on Ripsaw! on, Toots and Fukin Silly!
To the top of the bar! to the top of the spirits!
Now dash away! dash away! And keep off your mitts!"
As herb leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with a Rizla, we will get high,
So up to the house-top the boozers they flew,
With the sleigh full of moonshine, and St Boozeius too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the vine
The chopping and snorting of each little line.
As I drew in my breath, and was again falling down,
Down the chimney St Boozeius came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all Manowar's with ashes and toot;
A bundle of hooch he had flung on the floor,
And he looked like an off license just opening it's door.
His eyes - how they rolled! his pimples like cherries!
His cheeks were so sunken, his nose covered in dingleberries,
The drool from his mouth dribbled like a monastic vow,
And the beard of his chin certainly wasn't middle brow;
The stump of a hash pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head to his feet;
He had delicately chiselled Olympian features and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, but my Lord was he smelly.
He was wasted and drunk, a right jolly disgrace,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of his face;
In a blink of his eye and a twist of his neck,
Soon gave me to know I had to give him a safety check;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to the floor,
And sniffed all the stockings; that passed by the door,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a snort, up his olde chimney rose;
He staggered to his feet, to his mates gave a sign,
And then they all started uncorking the wine.
But I heard him exclaim, stumbling into the night,
"Happy Christmas to all, and DON'T FOOOKIN' BOVVER ME TILL THIS TIME NEXT YEAR!!! HARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"