The snow may fall and ice may glisten
But unless you little scamps repent,
Santa doesn't owe you one red cent.
If Hygeia brought presents, your slovenly smell
Would drive her back up the chimney and into the well.
If Saint Peter were to judge you now by your acts,
He'd unharness the reindeer and strap you to the rack
And Erato, once hearing those lame songs you play
Would give your iPod to an old man and just drive away.
But it's Santa brings Christmas, and he who keeps score.
He can't doubt that you're criminals, each to the core.
Through cold winter storm, yet, should he ride
To bring some glad tidings to the rotten inside?
Lucky then, for you, on the night that he sleds,
Through the din of your whining, he can't count in his head.
BAD, adj. Under 20.
Ho, Ho, Ho! Seasons Greetings to you and yours, misfits!