Christmas day is sneaking up.
Santa’s got his egg nog cup.
Mrs. S says with a sigh,
“You might be too drunk to fly.”
Jolly Santa says, “Ho, Ho.”
He’s been laying in the snow.
‘Making angels,’ he’ll relate.
But he just can’t stay up straight.
All these years of reindeer gas,
in his cockpit near their ass,
makes him wary of the sky.
Now he is too drunk to fly.
All the elves can’t get him sober.
Old St. Nick keeps falling over.
He’s had way too much libation
for chimney negotiation.
They’re afraid too much wassail
just might wind him up in jail.
There are rules up in the sky.
He could get an FUI.
Looking at his reindeer crew,
Blitzen might be loaded, too.
It looks like the holidays
might be lost in drunken haze.
‘Til a little elf named Fern
shows up with a coffee urn.
“We’ll just fill him with caffeine
until his whole system’s clean.”
In twelve hours, clear of eye,
Santa will be set to fly.
Rudolph plants a mental seed:
“Next year we should get him weed.”
