Farting quietly into his fake fur throne,
Followed through – Nobody knew.
The guffy smell of excited kids,
Disguised the the stench of his drunken skids.
So fucked-up he believes he’s really Santa.
Sitting in a scummy brummy shopping centre.
Bright red cheeks and big white beard,
To leave him with your kids is just plain weird.
If it wasn’t for the gin,
He’d be a kiddy danger.
Fucked up on booze he’s a festive gangster “playa”.
Chatting up the mums with his rancid breath;
40 Marlboro Lights and 10 bottles of Leffe;
A truly Grotty Grotto which smells of death.
Pay £4 a child for his “exclusive” toys,
Bought the the night before for the girls and boys.
Bought down the pub from the back of a Fiat Grande,
The quality of goods would embarrass Poundland.
50p each and the deal is a banker,
Leaving more booze for our festive wanker.
“Passed out in the sleigh,
Muntered all the way.
Oh what fun it is to ride,
On a wanker’s sledge with sick inside.”
Trousers round his ankles
Covered in sick.
He forgot to pull them up,
when he last took a shit.
Can’t stand up,
To greet the little sprogs.
Time to slink off out the way
And swig down more mulled grog.