twas the night before december 25th

twas the night before 12/25, and all through the country
not a believer was praying, not even mitt romney.
s&m gear amassed in closets where stored,
awaiting the moment “santa” showed, to commence the beatings
once more.

the children were awake, because they just couldn’t sleep,
scared that in every shadow lurked a horny catholic priest.
and mamma with her PVC, and i with my strap,
were trying out new safe-words, before a short sedative nap.

when during our haze, the orgasms did erupt n’ shutter
we cut the massage quick to wipe up our splatter.
and off to the shower, we floated, high as kites,
to wash off the love juices and jump start our night.

outside on the streets, there was nothing but snow
while inside the clubs, there was nothing but blow.
and what to our wandering eyes did arise,
but a sleigh get-up & a santa with bulging acid eyes.

he was far from agile, void of balance and wit,
and i knew in a heart beat he’d love chomping the bit.
so we took him back with us, hooking him up to the machine,
and we shocked him & swatted him till’ the safe word he
screamed.

“now dasher! now dasher!” what an appropriate phrase,
we thought as we untied him so he could sleep off the pain.
after locking him in the basement with a bucket to piss
we went back out into the night to find us another idiot.

there were quite a few santas stumbling drunkenly through the eve,
with corresponding elves who were puking out their spleens.
and on any given corner, dressed scantily to the hilt,
hookers in complete costume were out for the kill.

but then with a sprinkling, i saw from our roof,
a special santa had climbed up to ingest a bag full of mushrooms.
sooner than later he did want to fly,
and out into the open sky he went, then died.

though his skull had been shattered, spread all over the cement,
his clothes were impeccable, probably the best costume yet.
he’d been carrying a bag whose contents we did peek,
finding razor blade cookies & amphetamine treats.

his eyes by our ankles, his teeth over there,
his droll little still-smiling mouth caused one to stare,
but his fake beard which had been torn, no longer white,
glistened a deep maroon under the moon that night.

we called the authorities, we swiftly left the scene,
for a dead, once-tripping-santa, wasn’t going to ruin our evening.
but the sun was soon rearing its ever ugly head,
as all the lame high school wannabe vampires were nestling in their
coffin beds.

so after finishing off the k that we had between us,
we bedazzled our way back onto a bus.
coasting the road back to our abode,
not aware of the way in which we lost all our clothes.

laying there spent, in our birthday suits,
we gazed out the window with our vision dilute.
a new dark emptiness that didn’t seem right,
would last till’ we started it all up again that night.