Apologies to Clement Moore

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. 



3 thoughts on “Apologies to Clement Moore

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