Today we told you that, unfortunately, no one's buying you anything for Christmas this year. This inspired one commenter to write a cursed economy-themed poem for us.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
No creatures for eating, not even a mouse.
The shotgun was placed by the chimney with care,
In hopes that it would stop Citibank who soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While kiddie Xanax fucked with their heads.
And mamma in her Snuggie, and I lying on my back,
Had just polluted our brains with a whole quart of Jack.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and heard them smash.
The moon shone on the yellowed weed filled lawn
Showed I did not give two shits about my lawn.
When, what to my surprise I see below the moon,
But a motherfucker from Citibank and eight hired goons.
With some mortgage papers, full of lies and bullshit,
I knew in a moment they've come to evict.
More rapid than a machinegun his orders they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Smashit! now, Door! now, Kick it in and Fuck'em!
On, one! On, TWO! on, on Three and then Blitz'em!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now take away! Take away! Take away all!"
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And threw out all our belongings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his Glock's trigger guard,
And giving a nod, out the door we go!
He sprang to his car, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all drove like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Now get the fuck out of here deadbeats, and to all, tomorrow's your night!!!"