Friday, December 22, 2006

The Passion of the Elf

by Inclement Clarke Morehead

'Twas the night before Christmas, all through Morehead Heights
Not a creature was stirring, 'cept deep in my tights;
My pantyhose hung by the chimney with Nair,
In hopes that Huge Jackman soon would be there;
The vodka was nestled all snug in my head,
While visions of sugar-tits made my legs spread;
Like me in my turban, the brave with no head,
Had just gone to sleep, or perhaps we were dead.
When outside my skull there arose such a clatter,
I fell out of bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I crawled like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my hash.
Then mooning my breasts from my new-fallen pants,
Gave the luster of porn to my sagging implants.
When what to my blurry red eye there appears,
But some really big gay, and eight quite tiny queers,
And a little old driver, so drunken and glib, son,
I knew in a moment it must be Mel Gibson.
More rapid than virgins, his coursers they came,
And he humped them, and shouted, and cursed them by name;
"Now, Flasher! Pole Dancer! Fag Prancer, you Vixen!
On Slutty! On Trampy! On Scrotum and Nixon!
To the top of her porch! To the top of her house!
Now dash away! Dash away! Tear off her blouse!"
As dry heaves that before the wild hurricane barf,
I can’t get these stains off my lovely headscarf.
Up to my house-top they flew just like Krypto,
With the drunken old fool who made Apocalypto.
And then, in a flash, I heard on my ceiling,
The horrible sound of my juices congealing.
When I stuck out my butt, to show my endzone,
Down my chimney Mel Gibson came hard, with a groan.
He was painted bright blue, and was covered with gore,
And he smiled and he laughed and he called me a whore;
A bundle of buttplugs was flung on his back.
He was stinking of gin, my aphrodisiac.
His eyes -- how they watered! His dimples -- how sexy!
I don’t know why he gives the Jews apoplexy.
His wet drooling mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as yellow as snow;
The stump of a leg he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face, narrow mind, and round belly,
That shook when he raved, like petroleum jelly.
He was skinny and drunk, a right smelly old elf,
I got damp when I smelt him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his knob,
And his purple-eyed warrior started to throb.
He spoke not a word, but just started to jerk,
And soon stained my poster of Young Captain Kirk.
Then shoving his finger inside of his nose,
And giving a prod, up my chimney he rose;
He soon gave his team a quite mean disemboweling,
And then filmed their deaths, as they all lay there howling.
Last I heard him exclaim the incredible news,
"Happy Christmas to all. Now go kill some Jews."



Cheers darlings!

1 comment:

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