« on: December 22, 2010, 11:43:51 pm »
Itís Christmas in Tucson,
And in Portland itís Yule.
Cramís getting his Moose on,
ĎTil thereís blood in his stool.
Even I this year popped my Moosemas cherry,
With drinking and Zardoz at the Monestary.
In those Europ-ey places
Theyíve got Sinterklaus.
Heís eating kidsí faces
In his gingerbread house.
I donít speak Dutch so donít be a hater.
If my mythís wrong just blame Google translator.
In SoCal itís raining,
Just pouring it fierce.
White Christmas is straining
Against mudslides and fears.
Course itís not like it snows in those sunny spots,
Though tell that to Pickle in his Florida shorts.
Then thereís our Scot peers
And those Englishmen close.
Theyíre deep frying reindeers,
Served with sauteed Welsh toes.
Iíve always heard Brit cuisine is an odd one,
I think itís because theyíre descended from goblins.
Weíve a spag-scattered globe,
What with Aussies like Lys.
And Slaknet who knows where
That mystery man lives?
The point is weíre all in our Holiday moods.
To some it means screaming, to others new shoes.
What Iím trying to say,
Oh my PDíers dear.
Is that starting today
Spread Discordian cheer.
Itís almost like happiness of the ordiníry sort,
Except itís hating on revílers, and cruelty for sport!
Theyíre not deserving of
Their gifts under their trees.
They need a serving of
Lead pipes to their knees.
I hope that Santa carries Ďround something sharp
To cut himself loose from my trap with the tarp.
On hustlers and revírends!
On hipsters and punners!
On artists and madmen!
On crunchers of numbers!
On to your wintry festivals all kind!
ĎTis the season, so go fuck with some minds!
Thereíre spags round the fireplace,
Hanging up their stockings,
Theyíve met up in meatspace,
For Holiday mockings.
BadBeast says some shit like ďblimey oi govnahĒ
We canít understand him, but BB we love ya.
That Santa guyís finally
Been taken some care of.
Those Nessies are grimey,
But the snow keeps the slime off.
ĎCause the Southampton horrors ate Rudolph et al,
And a Templarís put Santaís hat on his metal.
But wait whatís that racket,
Coming up the chimney?
ďIím telling you faggots,
Iíve got gasoline, see?Ē
Our dear old Enrico wants to light up the fire,
But burning the place down isnít what they desire!
ďUnless it is, of course,Ē
A voice came from somewhere.
They screamed until hoarse.
One said, ďdynamiteís no fair!Ē
So many ideas to start up that first spark,
Itís too bad we canít just light it with snark.
Though it didnít much matter,
In the end it got lit.
And ECH made a platter,
Of some de-licious shit.
So we argue and revel and laugh with some brews,
Try this beer by Squiddy! And this one is Suuís!
Discord is the spirit,
Among different folk.
Let each other hear it,
But itís all the same joke!
Be it Moosemas or Christmas, Festivus or Yule,
Itís time to bring mindfucks from high upon fools.
The year at this place is,
Well, itís winding right down.
So silence your faces!
And hear Eater of Clowns!
PD is for fun and for serious havoc,
And all of this butthurt, no sir I wonít have it.
On WOMPers and writers!
On analysts and teachers!
On students and fighters!
On occupiers and creatures!
On to your PD revelry once more,
For again Ďtis the season to show all what for!
Ofuk not again,
the spags said together,
this poemís a pain,
give us a breather.
But the holiday season comes like it not,
so shut the fuck up and read up this rot.
So what the hell happened,
to PDers in í12.
Well we wrote some crap and
mostly we yelled.
The tumbleweeds heard it if no one else,
and even they were shocked by RWHN and Stellz.
There will be no tree,
for Garbo and Pix.
Theyíll light a bush or three,
because theyíre less phallic.
Roger and ECH can just stand there and watch,
but they cannot help because of their crotch.
And what about Twid,
whose faith this offends?
He knows that I kid,
so spare your Depends.
Ironing out what happens to Waffle,
I doubt heíll read this PD poem awful.
The Marrowman offers
me a few new rhyme schemes.
ďOne bone for my coffers,
to stop these grade school themes!Ē
L-M-N-O is worse than the bone man,
for making New England some scary land.
Hang holistís stocking,
but what the fuckís this?
Itís far too shocking,
which one of themís his?
A h0list, a holis+, a ho1ist and,
fuck if Iím typing that whole list again.
On beaders and crocheters!
On writers and garbers!
On larpers and players!
On mixers and warblers!
On and remember during this holiday chore,
Thereís no better time to punish fuckers galore!