Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the shed
Not a single ‘bot was stirring, as they were all dead.
Wet socks were hung over my doorway with care,
In hopes that a can of “fix-a-butt-flap” soon would be there.
And while I was thrashing all uncomfy in my bed,
Visions of painkillers danced nightmarishly in my head.
Bank account empty, and last Christmas’s crap in the garage,
Had just settled my cranium for a nice winter’s lodge.
When out in the yard there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore down some StyrofoamTM, and scratched an old rash.
The earplugs in my ears like rocks in a mountain
Popped out like water from a gushing fountain.
When, what to my wandering eyes should arise,
But a miniature sled, and eight tiny robot mice.
With a large robot driver, so cranky and sick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Slick.
More brainless than dumb blondes the rodents they came,
As Slick whistled, and shouted, and cursed them by name!
“Now Idiot! Now, Moron! Now, Doofus and Prickzo!
On, Retard! On, Useless! On, Worthless and Scitzo!
To the top of the trashcans! To the top of the rail!
Go a bit faster – were moving like a damn snail!”
As dry heaves grip before that final drink fly,
They met with an obstacle, and fell straight from the sky.
Tried again, past some old palm trees they bobbled,
The sled full of tommorow’s trash, & St. Slick-olas, they wobbled.
And then, in a sprinkling, I felt from the roof
The leaking and then scraping of a little robot hoof.
As I turned my head, turning quite rash,
Down the rain gutter Slick-olas came with a loud crash
He was dressed all in mouse fur, from his head to his foot,
Static and hairy, tarnished with dirt, robot mouse poop and soot.
A bundle of crap he had flung on his large back,
And he looked like a pedo-fi-ler, just scratching his sack.
Mechanical eyes-how they wrinkled! Techno dimples, how scary!
Fake cheeks like sponges, clown nose like a mashed berry!
His dull little mouth was drawn up in a sneer,
The beard on his chin was as white as frothed beer.
The stump of a pipe he crunched down tight in his teeth,
The smoke clawed at his head like a large beast.
He had a severe face and a hydraulic belly,
A reward for too much oil, corn sugar and telly!
He was all red and clanky, a right mechanical old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of an eye and a wag of a large finger,
Soon gave me to know I had better not linger.
Yet he said not a word, but went straight to some work,
And filled all the wet socks, then turned with a smirk.
And laying a finger alongside of his broken nose,
Then giving a nod, up into the sky he rose!
He wiggled into the sled, to his team gave a loud screech,
And away they all flew like sand from a beach.
Yet I heard him exclaim, as he escaped from my lair,
“Good luck you dumb bastard, have a nice painkiller nightmare!”
ChristmasMichael Bublé has a special holiday gift for his naughty and nice fans. The multi Grammy Award winning Canadian presents Christmas. Commented Bublé,... Read More >
