T’was the night before Christmas…

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through our shack

Not a drink was a-pouring—not a gin or a Jack.

The tumblers were set on the counter with care,

In hopes that Jack Daniels would visit this bear.


The children were rattled with sugar and cake.

They’d whipped me with belts just to see if I’d shake.

And Mama sat by with a glazed look devoid

Of sorrow or sympathy—brain opioid.


When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter:

A raccoon attacking our garbage—to scatter!

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

And yelled at my dad: “Have you still got that rash?


“If you are not still scratching your ass and your balls,

Perhaps you’d be up for one more of your squalls.

You see, there’s a beast in our yard, in the snow…

Devouring the peels in the garbage, you know.


“I was keeping those peels so they’d turn into booze.

That project, I’m sure, to you isn’t news.

And this tick-riddled vermin is wrecking my wine

So get out there, dad, and, well, get it in line.


“By which I mean beat it with shovel or stick

Or something from Walmart, you Langleyite hick.

Without that old compost, we won’t have Merlot.

And that, my dear dad, will totally blow.”


So stuck on this problem was I that I failed

To see the weird thing that had suddenly sailed

Into view in my window—first far and then near:

A miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reinbeers.


You got it, my fellows, my chums, my old drunks.

It wasn’t a sleigh pulled by reindeer, you lunks.

In front of the driver, whose eyes glowed e’er quicker,

Were eight sexy bottles of premium liquor.


And Santa, my friends, held his whip up to bear!

His veiny nose bursting with snot in the air.

More rapid than eagles his reinbeers, they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!


“Now Lager! Now Lambic! Now Dunkel and Wheatbeer!

On Pale Ale! On Pilsner! On Marzen and Altbier!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”


And then in a twinkling, he got out a gun

And aimed at the raccoon, who started to run!

He said, “I like cooking, and so does Ms Claus.

Especially when she can chop off the paws.”


Thus warping my picture of Santa forever,

This weird-ass old bugger proceeded to sever

The head of the raccoon, without even stopping

To slide down our chimney and disgorge his shopping.


“That’s that,” said my dad. “You’ve wrecked it all for us.

The children’s belief was already quite porous.

And when you espied him, he saw he’d been made.

Nice going, you furball. Now you’ll have to trade


Our alcohol money for toys and for dolls

Our Bailey’s for ponies, our Broker’s for balls.

And all ‘cause you had to sit here on this ledge

Determined to out Santa Claus and his sledge.”


“Not true!” did I shout. “I was nowhere near there

Until that raccoon started looking for pears!

And I thought you’d just go out and give it a swat,

But that psychopath killed it with nary a thought!”


“That psycho was Santa,” my mum at last said.

“We needed his presents much more than a dead

Raccoon, don’t you think? You indecorous bear—

What business have you on that window ledge there?”


When all of a sudden, the rooftop went thump!

That bastard had come back with presents to dump!

His fat ass came shimmying right down the chimney

The raccoon blood drying and coating him thinly.


He spoke not a word but went straight to his work

And despite wearing chaps he did not even twerk.

And pulling a finger across his thick throat,

He gestured a threat, if ever we spoke!


He sprang to his sleigh, to his beers gave a whistle

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim as he left with a zoom,

“Merry Christmas to all, except that fucking raccoon.”


9 thoughts on “T’was the night before Christmas…

      • From my foray into beer review poetry, I can attest to that being the hardest part. I only read it once so far, but I remember the meter problems being minimal. Plus I think these poems we parody took way longer to write than a blog post should…and aren’t nearly as funny. Anapestic tetrameter be damned.

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