So it is Christmas Eve in the E____ household,
and here am I, with thoughts racing through
my head, as I grip the racing pen in 
my hand, and the waterproof flashlight in the other.

Aha! a light is flickered on and now the
page shines holy white, the lamp burns bright
and drowns the waterproof flashlight in a 
deluge of lucis deum not of Apollo.

And to a neon god they prayed, as he
inked the blue-blooded chants of pagan
worshippers, blinded by the toxic sun as 
their self-deprecating ritual reached fever pitch.

Tomorrow the lie would be propagated
in households all across the heathen land
as they win this jihad, and force
an exodus upon the true believers.

Soon poor Terra will be enslaved by this
pretender to the earthly throne, and soon
those pagans not of noble birth
shall bow before the harbingers of doom.

These heroine pushers sell the sickest dope:
they preach that after death there's hope;
and so, these collared addicts, drunk on salvation
accept their rank lives, as over-fermentation.

Now these addicts they slave for hours each day
by the will of their family, who live far away;
"Dear Uncle Sam says you're making him proud,
...but Big Brother's watching, so don't speak out loud."

But then there's stern Father, whom they fear the most,
and his minions the Son and the Holy Ghost;
and it's to appease Him, and avoid His almighty scorn
that they live in a sewer, to send you your presents on Christmas morn.
SAUCE00I am reunited with a racing pen    Basic               mISTFUNK 1998       19980116Ć                                  