Hark the Herald? Fuck that. Listen to Pesci Claus
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the castle
Not an author was writing, for it was too much a hassle;
The notes were organized by the computer with care,
In hopes that Ty soon would be there;
The author was nestled all snug in bed,
While visions of Christmas dinner danced in his head;
And George in his skivvies, and Ty on his lap,
Both just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
George rolled from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he floundered like a fish,
Struggled open the shutters and knocked over the satellite dish.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to George’s wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature limo, and something quite queer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
He knew in a moment who it must be and it made him sick.
More rapid than boys in trousers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Simon! now, Schuster! now, Bantam and Sub P!
On, Eos! On Avon! On, Timescape, and Blujay!
Leave me alone! Get off the top of my wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
they meet with an obstacle, and wanted to cry,
So up to the house-top George’s publishers they flew,
With the bags full of money, and royalties too.
And then, while tinkling, George peed on the floor
He heard huffing and pawing and Bantam called him a whore.
As he drew in his jubs, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the publishers came with a bound.
They were dressed all like paupers, from head to foot,
And their clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle bills they had flung on their backs,
And they looked like peddlers just opening their pack.
Their eyes -- how they dimmed! Their dimples pockmarked and scary!
Their cheeks were hollow, their noses runny!
Their droll little mouths showing nothing about this was funny,
And the beard of George’s chin was covered in bits of meat;
The stump of a bong he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled George’s head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a big round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a combined weight of 65 elves,
And the publishers laughed when they saw him, in spite of themselves;
But with a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave the publishers to know they had nothing to dread;
George spoke not a word, but went straight to giving his shaft a jerk,
And shoved in another Twinkie into his mouth; assuring the men he was hard at work,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
George blew a snot giving a nod, up the publishers rose;
They sprang to their feet, to their team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But the publishers heard George exclaim, ere they drove out of sight,
"Keep the royalties coming, and everything will be all right.”
Merry Christmas
- Pesci