Twas the Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas when all through Feff World;
Not a creature was stirring, except for Feff's dog who drank too much
pineapple soda and hurled.
The stockings were all hung by the chimney with care;
While Feff was at the racetrack, betting his savings on a mare.
The children were nestled, all safe in their beds;
Thanks to Joe McCarthy, who got rid of all the Reds.
And Mom in her kerchief, and I in my cap;
Made plans for the revolution on the large South American map.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter;
Like if Martina Navratilova was playing the drums, on her Wimbledon
Away to the window, I flew like a flash;
Trying hard not to scratch my venereal rash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow;
Looked so nice I wrote a song about it on my banjo.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear;
But a '74 Chevy Nova, with a shiny veneer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick;
I knew at a moment, he was a damn lunatic.
More rapid than a eagle, his Nova, it came;
As he shouted out random presidents, calling them by name.
Now Franklin, now Thomas, now Abraham, now John;
On Woodrow, on Harry, on Lyndon, and Ron.
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall;
This guy used my bushes as his personal bathroom stall.
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly;
If he wasn't crazy, he surely was high.
So up to the housetop, the Nova, it flew;
With a trunk full of bootleg Yanni c.d.'s, and that mental patient too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof;
The guy open a bottle of something ninety proof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around;
He fell through my ceiling, landing hard on the ground.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot;
My priceless Frabrage egg, he used as a shot put.
A bundle of my silverware, he flung on his back;
Just my luck, he's a kleptomaniac.
His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry;
As he stole my souvenir basketball, autographed by Cleveland Cavalier
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow;
My Monet should look good hanging somewhere in the ghetto.
The stump of his pipe, he held tight in his teeth;
Why is he nailing my cat to the door like a wreath?
He had a broad face, and a round little belly;
And for the love of God was his breath ever smelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf;
Must have been tough trying to carry my T.V. all by himself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head;
He has no religion, no God like my Ed.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work;
Looting my house, he was such a jerk.
And laying a finger along side his nose;
His job was done, so up the hole in my roof he rose.
He sprang to his Nova, songs from Porgy and Bess he would whistle;
And away he flew, like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he sputtered out of sight;
Happy Christmas to all, especially, star of Too Close For Comfort, the
late Ted Knight.
Merry Christmas to all of you, from all of us here at Feff World.