'Twas the night before Christmas and all
thru the pad,
Not a hep cat was swinging and that's nowhere, dad.
The stove was hung up in that stocking routine,
Like, maybe the fat man would soon make the scene.
The kids that fell by had just made the
street;
I was ready for Snoresville, and man, was I beat.
When there started a rumble that came on real frantic,
So I opened the window to figure the panic.
I saw a slick rod that was making fat
tracks,
Souped up by eight ponies, all wearing hat racks;
And a funny old geezer was flipping his lid.
He told them to make it, and man, like they did!
They were out of the chute, making time
like a bat,
Turning the quarter in eight seconds flat.
They parked by the smokestack in bunches and clusters,
And Chubby slid down, coming on like gangbusters.
His threads were from Cubesville and I had
to chuckle,
In front, not in back, was his Ivy league buckle!
And the mop on his chin had a button-down collar,
And with that red nose he looked like a baller.
Like he was the squarest, the most
absolute,
But let's face it, who cares when he left all that loot?
He laid the jazz on me and peeled from the gig,
Wailing, "Have a cool Yule, Man!" and clutched off in his rig.
