Twas Santa Who Stole My Supra
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, my cat killed the mouse;
My tools strewn across the shop without a care
In hopes that my head gasket would soon be repaired
Asleep in the driver seat too tired to reach the bed,
While visions of high boost danced in my head
And my wife in her peekaboo, and I in my shed,
When she wakes in the morning I will soon be dead.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I grabbed my 40 cal to see what was the matter.
A round in the chamber I flew like a flash,
I was locked and loaded to protect my stash
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment I drank too much beer.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of shit, and the fat guy too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The groaning of wood under each little hoof.
As I drew up my gun to fire off a round,
In my chimney the fat guy somehow went down.
Dressed all in fur, pimped from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all covered with shit and soot;
A bundle of shit he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pot head just opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they were red! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump one hitter he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
That fat fucker had broken into my house.
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and he picked up a tool,
Soon my motor was fixed and felt like a fool.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the fluids; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to the Supra, revving the motor up
And he flew away, lighting the back tires up.
But I heard him exclaim, when he drove out of sight,
"Thanks for the Supra, this bitch is tight."
Merry Christmas All.