Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the house,
Not a Grandmonster was stirring,
not even her spouse (cause he's dead).
The electronic music playing stockings were hung on the wall with non-permanent hooks and care,
In hopes that St. Amazon would soon be there.
His Majesty was nestled all snug in our bed,
While visions of creating chaos throughout the house made him giggle in his head,
And me with my Fangoria Magazine, and no night cap,
had just settled down for a going-to-bed, God-please-help, I-need-to-get-this-outta-me pre-midnight crap.
When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
I barely had time to grab toilet paper before seeing what was the matter,
It was a little old driver, who hit our tree with a clunk,
I knew it was that bastard from the end of the street, drunk as a skunk.
He sprang from his car, embarrassed to be caught,
And away he flew down the sidewalk, looking a tiny bit fraught.
But I heard him exclaim, after I threw a snowball and gave him a bump,
"Up yours, gay couple. I voted for Trump!"