Twas High-Street before Cthulmas

Twas High-Street before Cthulmas, when all through this dreck
Not a postwhore was stirring, not even Opsec.
The cockrings well hung by the slave-swing with care,
In hopes that St Dickless soon would be there.

The crotchfruit were nestled all fucked in their cots,
While visions of Goatse danced in their twats.
And Tubgirl in her tartan, and two girls in one cup,
Had just bleached our eyes for a long winter’s shtup.

When high on some grass there arose such a clamor,
I refreshed all the threads to see who would yammer.
Away to the browser I flew like a jerk,
To see some more pictures not quite safe for work.

The sauce on the breast of some n00b-sodden 'ho
Gave the pall of mid-night to axe-wounds below.
When, what to my wandering eyes should be forced in,
But a miniature shlong, and eight tiny abortions.

With a little old asshat, oft repeated and sick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Dick.
More rapid than hornets our vomit did come,
And we whistled, and fapped, and called it so dumb!

"Now Sofie! Decadancer! now, Dhalgren so witty!
On, Orange! On, Choad! on, on Paleboy and Smitty!
To the top of the pipe! to the topics so wrong!
Now smash away! Slash away! Hash in the bong!"

As dry humor that before the wild tastelessness flies,
When they meet with an obstacle, here's mud in your eyes.
So up to the house-top the Streeters they flew,
With the hands full of lube, and the Tubes full of You.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and mincing of each little poof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning to faint,
Down the chimney St Dickless came in with Taint.

He was dressed all in vinyl, from gimpmask to his boot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with cumstains and soot.
A bundle of sextoys he had flung on his back,
And so like a smutpeddler, just fondling his sack.

His stars--how they pucker! his rosebud--how cherry!
Buttcheeks were like flapjacks, his hose up and merry!
His droll little sneer was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was white with some blow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his lips,
And the smoke it encircled his cold-hardened nips.
He had a broad's face and a little round stye,
That oozed when he laughed, like a fistful of KY!

He was wasted and drunk, a right jolly old imp,
And I laughed when I saw him, and then called his pimp!
A brown wink of his eye and a twist of his ass,
Soon gave me to know this dream could not last.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his wank,
Cream filled all the stockings, then turned with a yank.
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
And flicking a booger, up the chimney he rose!

He wrung out his shlong, to his team gave the finger,
And away they all flew like the death's own harbinger.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out in the sleet,
"Happy Cthulmas to all, and to all on High-Street!"

Bravo for this and the ornament banner.

Is there some particular reason you chose to interject with Romnistic filth? That man has about as much chance of becoming Leader of the Free World as I do of hate-fucking Angelina Jolie. To be clear: I could probably still manage that, if I really put my mind to it. He's still not going to be Prez.

And please to enjoy this surrogate gift on Smitty's behalf. I'm not replacing your usual substitute, but I do have half the fat and twice the calories.

Last edited by pALEPHx (2007-12-26 02:18:31)