Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the “house”
Every Housing First client was drunk as a louse.
Their stockings were filthy, their underwear too;
They know not detergent, soap, or shampoo.
The drunkards were passed out all over the place,
While visions of booze brought a smile to each face.
Staff members on duty were snoozing away —
Bored, not pickled; can they be blamed?
When from the homeless shelter next door there arose such a roar,
Staff and residents both ran to see what it was for!
The moon was dark and the night was clear;
A truck wrecked next to the shelter, loaded with beer.
This started a riot, as you can imagine.
Bums poured outside to each gulp a few gallons!
The driver was dazed and staggered around,
Then he got mugged ‘ere he hit the ground.
Fists were flying, a few kicks landed too;
A hundred inebriates were intent on the brew.
The police were summoned, Betsey Martens as well,
To respond to this scene straight out of Hell.
Later we heard that a stranger appeared:
Dressed all in red, with a long white beard.
He scratched his head in wonder, and then the old gentleman shrugged
“Leave Santa a treat? These human sponges have drank it all up!”
He was smoking a pipe, we need not explain;
It was weed, of course, the North Pole strain.
Ms. Martens held a press conference later on in the day
To explain to reporters how much money was saved.
What happened to Santa and his mangy reindeer?
They hastened away from a spectacle so queer.
But not before leaving lumps of coal for everyone there,
With a promise to return next Christmas, if they dare.