Twas the night before Festivus, when the bank foreclosed on the house,
Nary a critter was stirring, cos we ate the damn mouse.
With the dryer in hock, the clothes were hung by the heater with care,
In hopes that St Nick would leave a new washer and dryer there.
Four children were nestled all snug in one bed,
While visions of their very own room, danced in their heads.
And mama stood watch, ready if need, to bust a cap,
I stepped down from my post, to catch a short nap.
When out in the road, there came such a clatter,
I jumped from the recliner to see what was the matter.
I unbolted the window, quick as a flash,
and yelled out to the yard, “we don’t have any cash!”
The moon was the only light on the new-fallen snow,
cos the streetlight was busted, and the glass lay below.
When, what to my bloodshot eyes did appear,
twas an Escalade, with eight gang bangers near.
With a fourteen year old driver, mashing the brake with a brick,
the thought of his payments ‘bout made me sick.
From out of his windows is where the thumping came,
he yelled to his homies, and called them by name.
“Yo’ Dee-boy, hey Danny!
Wassup Rancid and Dixon?
C’mon Ajax, you too Stupid!
Move it, Donnie and Blister!
Get yo’ buts on that porch!
It aint but a six foot wall!
Lets bust a move, Today! Now bounce away!
Careful, don’t fall.”
As scared rabbits they run, as the wild bullets do fly,
when they meet with buckshot, even the toughest ones cry.
So back to the Escalade, of course they flew,
with a sack of my neighbors shit, and his pit bull too.
And just then I heard it, feet on my roof,
one of those bangers was on the hoof.
I drew a bead on his butt, judging from sound,
and fired through the roof, knocking him to the ground.
That pimp was decked out in fur, from head to foot,
but his clothes were a mess, from when I did shoot.
I’m sure that the buckshot had stung on his back,
and he looked rather sad, digging pellets from his crack.
His eyes were all glassy from huffing paint, his pimples seemed merry,
He’d never been shot, but now he had cred, I’d broken his cherry.
His grill-dressed mouth was all out for show,
but the stubble on his chin just refused to grow.
The stub of his crack pipe held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke of it circled him like a funeral wreath.
He had food on his face, and crumbs on his belly,
he needed to bathe, and smelled rather smelly.
He was thinly and gaunt, a right odd looking elf,
I laughed when I saw him, and almost peed myself.
The glaze of his eye, and twitch of his head,
said if he huffed more glue, he’d soon be dead.
He spoke messed-up words, his bent-up grill made his lips not work,
He sprayed paint in his sack, and called me a jerk.
Raising the bag, so it covered his nose,
inhaling deeply, the vapors all rose.
He sprang to his feet, and to his posse did whistle,
rubber peeled from his dubs, like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him holla back, as they sped out of sight,
Happy Festivus y’all, ah’ight.
