UnPoetia:The Night After Christmas

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'Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house

Was an orgy of presents, worth more than... the house;

The Xbox was stuffed up the chimney with care,

For fear that the repo-man soon would be there;

My mind, it was pondering, while laying in bed,

A vision of bankruptcy danced in my head;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just barely survived this consumerist trap,

When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,

I fell out of the bed; several ribs did I shatter.

Away to the window I limped like a mule,

Still drunk as a fish, from the tidings of yule.

The moon on the roof of my new minivan,

Gave a lustrous sheen you just can't buy in a can,

When, what to my grog-fuddled eyes should turn up,

But a furniture van, with eight dwarves in the truck,

With a little old driver, so deceitful and slick,

I guessed at that moment, "He's prob'ly named Nick."

Old nick.jpg

More rapid than vermin his movers they came,

And he blasphem'd and cussed, as he called them by name;

"Now, Tony and Angelo! Vincent! Emilio!

Go, Raymond! Rosario! And Danny and Guido!

I want half on the front door and half on the side!

We need this crap moved by a quarter to five!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the room

The scraping and prying of objects removed.

As I cradled my head, and was turning around,

Into the foyer Nick came with a bound.

He was dressed all in black, the irreverent weasel,

And he sported some pipes 'bout the size of Vin Diesel;

A bundle of tools he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a shyster, or a lawyer on crack.

His eyes—they were sunken! his dimples unmerry!

His cheeks were like hockey pucks, his nose—frickin' scary!

His tight little mouth was drawn up like a noose,

And the look on his face said "I'll cook your goose.";

The stump of a gun he held firm in his hand,

Left no dangling question 'bout who was the man;

He had a hard face and a prominent belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowl of spaghetti.

He was alarmingly grim, a right nasty old elf,

And I whizzed in my boxers, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I that I may turn up dead;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And stole all our presents; the contemptuous jerk,

And raising his finger in the mid of his hand,

He asked for my credit cards, and said I was banned;

He sprang to his truck, to his thugs gave an order,

And they made for the hills, like those folks near the border.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Some things may be priceless, but debt just ain't right."


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