The North Pole was dispossessed upon,
Eight reindeer repossessed;
The workshop’s currently a sale house
Where kids offered on toys.
Yes, the gossip’s actual that Santa Claus
Went enormous red paunch up.
Try not to accuse the Candy Cane Bank
It’s not their blame Old Saint Nick
Couldn’t keep his snow white facial hair
What’s more, ruddy cheeks over the ice.
Father Christmas was a terrible venture
I heard one Bank CEO say to another
He gave excessively away without
Gathering legitimate profits.
I figure Old Chris Cringle paid the cost
As now he’s holding out his cap
For treats on Fifth Avenue,
What’s more, individuals call him inebriated.
The correct dapper old mythical person
Requests cocoa in the soup line
Be that as it may, he never gets it,
Simply his half-potato
With some stock and
This malodorous looking
Bit of meat that is
Glided there too long.
Craving’s a decent helper
I’ve heard the lawmakers say.
Be that as it may, they’ve never clustered with
The refuse to keep warm
Like St. Scratch and incalculable
Others like him.