‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the city
not a hooker was stirring, Oh what a pity.
Their Lingerie was hung by the headboard with care,
in hopes that Short Matt would soon be there.
Ward and Grote were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of Lilo’s and Upton’s danced in their heads.
And Lori and Cookie, and I in my cap,
had just settled in for a long winter’s Clap.
When out on the stoop there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see who’s brain made a splatter.
It was clear to me now that Rex Ryan had jumped,
Such a shame the Jets couldn’t get over the hump!
The moon on his breast and his red nose’s glow
gave the luster of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature cue ball and a six-pack of beer.
Riding a crappy old bike, and fat like a cat,
I knew in a moment it must be Short Matt.
Approaching the door you could hear him laud tales of his minions
Quick with the whip he elicits opinions
On Professor, on Blaber
And Different Matt too.
I’ll make you write until your face is azul.
If you don’t let me inside Sir, I’ll make you write too
The threat of a weekly put the doorman at bay,
Instead of a column he showed him the way
On the way to my floor Short Matt did spew
Right there in the elevator, It smelled like See Yew.
And then in a pounding I heard at the door.
The eloquent Matt yelled “One More”!
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
the stanky old booze hound had busted the door down.
He was dressed in all hockey pads from his head to his foot,
and his gear was all tarnished with vomit and soot.
A three pack of beer nestled under his arm
he looked like a hobo drenched with chicken parm
His demeanor was grizzled and his cheeks were swollen
Both eyes were so black he looked like Gary Coleman
His droll little mouth was something to see
he might as well have been an extra on glee
the stains from his lunch were fresh on his teeth,
and the putrid smell encircled head like a wreath.
He was portly and haggard, and I was scared of his visage,
I cowered when I saw him, He was a hideous image.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know he was coming to bed!
He spoke not a word, but went straight for the covers
Then he whispered in Lori’s ear, “Can we be lovers?”
Upon waking in bed to his creepy advance
She gave him a swift kick right in the pants.
Disoriented from the blow and his manhood in limbo
The drunken old Matt fell right out the window. (Word of the day is “Defenestrate” – to throw out of a window. To bad nothing rhymes with it)
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he paid his mortal debt
“Merry Christmas to all, gosh darn it go METS!“