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.


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