Twas The Night Before…

Originally posted as part of the Rockstar Ramblings at MetalUnderground.com.

dave

The date: December 24, 1988
Location: Southern California

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the rock world
Not a guitar was sounding, not even a chord.
The bandanas were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that even more bandanas soon would be there.

The groupies were passed out, all snug in their beds,
With visions of DIO, dancing in their heads.
And Axl wearing his boxers, and Slash in his cap,
Had just settled their lawsuits, shot up, and decided to nap.

When out on the tour bus there arose such a clatter,
Bret Michaels sprang from his bed of whores to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
There he saw one of his whores, running away with his cash.

Ozzy was barking at the moon at the new-fallen snow
Nearby, Tommy Lee had just run out of blow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
A presence of Santa, with drugs coming out his ears.

From the commotion it was clear that this Santa was not quick,
There was a moment it appeared he might get sick.
More rapid than eagles, his friends, they all came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Jack! Now Jim Beam! Now Jose where are thee I call!
On, Budweiser! On, Guinness! On PBR and oh, he almost fell!
Drinking on top of the porch! Spilling on top of the wall!
Now he drinks them down! Down all the way! Down with all!”

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The sound of a drunk Santa in a very soiled suit.
As I drew in my head, my face almost caved,
When down the chimney it wasn’t St Nick, but Diamond Dave.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with cigarette ash and soot.
A sack of presents and case of beer he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, when he pulled out the flask of Jack.

His eyes-how they were bloodshot! his beer breath how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his bleeding nose like a cherry!
One of my presents, Cocaine in a bowl.
Dave immediately tried some, leaving some on his nose.

The stump of a hash-pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad smile and ripped abs for a belly,
Strange I would put that, instead of a bowlful of jelly!

He spoke not a word, smiling a lot while at work,
And filled all the bandanas, and also some sleeveless shirts.
A pinch more coke, laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, a smile, and up the chimney he rose!

He finished the eight ball, then slipped and slid off the roof,
Looks like no 1989 tour, only a lawsuit.
But then I heard him laugh, as he rose up into sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

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About Pulp Scribbler

The Writing of David S. Grant View all posts by Pulp Scribbler

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