‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
There in the garden were three lads from Glasnevin
So I took out my shotgun and sent them to heaven;
I picked up the bodies and set them on fire,
the house was aglow from the scumbag based pyre.
Now every 12 months I do the same thing,
I burn up three scumbags and we all dance and sing;
They’re out trying to burgle, never stopping their hunts,
But I teach them a lesson the itinerant cunts.
Oh Twenty, oh Twenty, I read you with glee, and when you talk filthy I feel so happy, that someone like you should give so much pleasure, to people like me who hate Irish weather. And when it is grey and worse when it’s wet I turn on my computer and read, bated breath, to see what person has stoked up your ire, (I paticularly liked your ‘fuel’ for the fire) So when under pressure to repent your sins, tell them to shove it, you won’t be reined in, like that cunt Dubloon and all of those fuckers, We love you Twenty, me old skanky muker.
And I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight:
“Happy Christmas to All! Except that D*bl*n S*cks shite!”
You from the Brack?
No, Peter. It’s poetic licence. Or something.
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