‘Twas the night before Christmas, somewhere in New York
Not an owner was stirring, but in bed like a dork;
The stockings were hung underneath vaulted ceilings,
Empty like my heart, devoid of all feelings;
The players were nestled all snug in their condos,
Hopefully sleeping, and not sexting randos;
And mamma in her Versace, and I in my cap,
The Johnson’s had settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a rumble,
“COME OUT HERE YOU FUCK FACE,” I could hear the man mumble.
Away to the window I threw on my glasses,
Tore open the shutters and saw bare human asses.
The moon on the crest of a man’s naked buttocks
A Santa belt resting on the ground by his Chucks,
Then, he turned, and his face did appear,
For it was Rex, sans pants, with a twelve-pack of beer,
In a rusty old van, like you see on the news,
His wife was driving, not wearing her shoes.
More rapid than the Eagles, his players they came,
And he barked, and grumbled, and called them by name;
“Now, NACHO! now, WINSLOW! now, IVORY and GENO!
On, MANGOLD! on BILAL! on, HOLMES even you CRO!
Four take the back! And four rush the wall!
Use your vision! Break away! He can’t shoot us all!”
The wheels met the pavement, and the van sped away,
A band full of misfits was headed my way,
Their eyes filled with rage, and nothing to lose,
I lost sight of their captain, who’d snuck off with his booze.
And then, with a thud, I heard on the roof
The stumbling and bumbling of each drunken hoof.
As I drew in my phone, and dialed the cops,
Down the chimney St. Rex came, all covered in hops.
He was dressed like Santa, best I could tell,
But his pants were still missing, and he smelled like straight hell;
A bottle of scotch he had flung on his back,
And a bundle of mistletoe was covering his sac.
His eyes — how they glazed! unshaven he was!
Several days, probably, he’d been cultivating this buzz!
His mouth was ajar, for he’d something to say,
“THE FUCK YOU LOOKING AT? WHAT ARE YOU? GAY?”;
The end of a joint fell down from his teeth,
And set fire to mother’s prized Christmas wreath;
He pulled up his shirt, and exposed a round belly,
And shook it around, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a drunken old coot,
And demanded I fork over, next season’s loot;
“Nay,” I told him, “A contract you’ve signed”,
“If you want a buyout, you’ll have to resign”;
He spoke not a word, just scratched on his head,
I couldn’t understand, how this man wasn’t dead
Then he gave me the finger, on my dog he did spit
And giving a nod, said “FUCK IT. I QUIT.”;
He sprang to his van, and lined up the shooters,
And away they all flew down the street to a Hooters.
Then a door flew open, and he yelled from the back,
“MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL, LET’S GO EAT A GODDAMN SNACK!”