« on: December 22, 2010, 11:43:51 pm »
It’s Christmas in Tucson,
And in Portland it’s Yule.
Cram’s getting his Moose on,
‘Til there’s blood in his stool.
Even I this year popped my Moosemas cherry,
With drinking and Zardoz at the Monestary.
In those Europ-ey places
They’ve got Sinterklaus.
He’s eating kids’ faces
In his gingerbread house.
I don’t speak Dutch so don’t be a hater.
If my myth’s wrong just blame Google translator.
In SoCal it’s raining,
Just pouring it fierce.
White Christmas is straining
Against mudslides and fears.
Course it’s not like it snows in those sunny spots,
Though tell that to Pickle in his Florida shorts.
Then there’s our Scot peers
And those Englishmen close.
They’re deep frying reindeers,
Served with sauteed Welsh toes.
I’ve always heard Brit cuisine is an odd one,
I think it’s because they’re descended from goblins.
We’ve a spag-scattered globe,
What with Aussies like Lys.
And Slaknet who knows where
That mystery man lives?
The point is we’re all in our Holiday moods.
To some it means screaming, to others new shoes.
What I’m trying to say,
Oh my PD’ers dear.
Is that starting today
Spread Discordian cheer.
It’s almost like happiness of the ordin’ry sort,
Except it’s hating on rev’lers, and cruelty for sport!
They’re not deserving of
Their gifts under their trees.
They need a serving of
Lead pipes to their knees.
I hope that Santa carries ‘round something sharp
To cut himself loose from my trap with the tarp.
On hustlers and rev’rends!
On hipsters and punners!
On artists and madmen!
On crunchers of numbers!
On to your wintry festivals all kind!
‘Tis the season, so go fuck with some minds!
There’re spags round the fireplace,
Hanging up their stockings,
They’ve met up in meatspace,
For Holiday mockings.
BadBeast says some shit like “blimey oi govnah”
We can’t understand him, but BB we love ya.
That Santa guy’s finally
Been taken some care of.
Those Nessies are grimey,
But the snow keeps the slime off.
‘Cause the Southampton horrors ate Rudolph et al,
And a Templar’s put Santa’s hat on his metal.
But wait what’s that racket,
Coming up the chimney?
“I’m telling you faggots,
I’ve got gasoline, see?”
Our dear old Enrico wants to light up the fire,
But burning the place down isn’t what they desire!
“Unless it is, of course,”
A voice came from somewhere.
They screamed until hoarse.
One said, “dynamite’s no fair!”
So many ideas to start up that first spark,
It’s too bad we can’t just light it with snark.
Though it didn’t 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 Suu’s!
Discord is the spirit,
Among different folk.
Let each other hear it,
But it’s all the same joke!
Be it Moosemas or Christmas, Festivus or Yule,
It’s time to bring mindfucks from high upon fools.
The year at this place is,
Well, it’s 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 won’t 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 ‘tis the season to show all what for!
Ofuk not again,
the spags said together,
this poem’s 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 ’12.
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.
They’ll light a bush or three,
because they’re 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 he’ll read this PD poem awful.
The Marrowman offers
me a few new rhyme schemes.
“One bone for my coffers,
to stop these grade school themes!”
L-M-N-O is worse than the bone man,
for making New England some scary land.
Hang holist’s stocking,
but what the fuck’s this?
It’s far too shocking,
which one of them’s his?
A h0list, a holis+, a ho1ist and,
fuck if I’m 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,
There’s no better time to punish fuckers galore!