The Fry Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas and right through the town,
All the creatures were slurring and tumbling down,
And I, with my nightcap of Horlicks and booze,
Had just settled down for a nice winter’s snooze

When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
That I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,
And what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But my very own husband with eight tins of cold beer.

The children awoke thanks to Stephen’s daft games,
And he sang as he drank as he called out their names,
Oy Asbo! Oy Subo! Hugh Junior! Viennetta!
Oy Brangie! Oy Junior! I’ve ruined my sweater!

His heart and his bladder were filled with good cheer,
And several bottles of cheap local beer,
A sudden warm feeling came over him so,
He signed us his autograph there in the snow.

He giggled and burped as he reached for his keys,
A difficult task with his pants round his knees,
He took out his dongle – a bit of a worry,
And it shook as he laughed like a bowlful of curry.

Then up on the roof he espied our pet cat,
And he slurred as he shouted ‘What you lookin’ at?’
Then he yelled as he slipped and collapsed in a bin,
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a large gin!’